Peter Morwood - The Clan Wars 02

by Widowmaker

  “Wake up. Wake up!”

  Marc heard the voice as if through a thickness of wool stuffed into his ears. It was sharp and insistent, but nothing like so sharp as the slaps across the face which punctuated each command, back and forth, rolling his head loosely on his neck with each blow. But they didn’t succeed in waking him up, and his only signs of life were the reddening hand-prints on each cheek and the slow ooze of blood from one nostril.

  “You fool! You hit him too hard with that thing!” said the sharp voice.

  “No, lord.” This was a different voice, deeper and wearily patient. “Watch.” A finger and thumb groped at the lobe of Marc’s ear, taking hold with the nails, and then those nails pinched, hard. It sent a stab of excruciating pain through even the grey woollen fog in his mind, and his eyelids fluttered at last.

  “Again, lord?”

  “Again.”

  The pain was even worse this time, because the grey fog was thinning fast. A foul sensation of nausea was taking its place, and Marc had to fight down the need to throw up. He managed, if only just. That deep voice had been right; he hadn’t been hit too hard. Otherwise – he knew from unpleasant experience – he would have had no option in the matter. Consciousness and vomiting would have followed one another like dawn and day. Instead, and leaving only a sour taste of bile at the back of his throat, the nausea backed down to a roiling queasiness in his stomach.

  Marc risked a deep breath, then another, and finally opened his eyes.

  His long, lean face carved into angles by the fall of light and shadow from two lanterns, Ivern ar’Diskan stared down at him, and the expression on the man’s face was far more familiar than the genial smiles of the past few weeks. Now it was a typical ar’Diskan scowl, suspicion mixed in equal parts with hatred. Familiarity didn’t make it any more welcome, especially when Marc realized that Ivern, a shorter man than himself, was only looking down at him because he had been tied wrist and ankle to a heavy chair.

  The inadequate lighting showed Marc only that they were in some cellar or store-room, cluttered with the vague shapes of old furniture and presumably far away from where anyone might hear what was going on inside. His stomach heaved again, and he tried and failed to suppress a retch and a sour acid belch.

  Ivern sidestepped, sneering at him. “Go ahead,” he said. “Foul yourself. In a few hours from now it won’t matter.”

  “What…?”

  “Don’t play the innocent with me.”

  Marc had gone to enough theatrical melodramas in Drosul that he almost laughed at the cliché – except that from where he was sitting, it wasn’t especially funny. With the stink of the lamps and the tang of dust and sweat, the place even smelt like a theatre: but these lamps weren’t the guttering, metal-shaded footlights that lined the stage, and the sweat was his own, and smelt less of heat and crowding than of fear. He shook his head, trying to get some sense through the confusion and the aching, but Ivern grabbed a handful of his hair and tugged it savagely back until they were eye to eye.

  “I know why you’re in Erdanor,” ar’Diskan said. “I know who sent you. I know what you’re doing.”

  Marc gazed blearily at the other man, and blinked. Either Ivern ar’Diskan was talking nonsense, or he was just hearing nonsense. Given the way he felt, one was as likely as the other.

  “Then why in the name of the Father of Fires won’t you tell me?” he mumbled. “Because I’d like to know as well.”

  Ivern studied him in silence for a few seconds, then simply said, “Hit him.”

  “Yes, lord.” Now that Marc’s senses were in better order, he could tell that the deep voice came from behind him. He still hadn’t seen the speaker yet, but whoever it was had an Alban riding-quirt this time instead of his loaded club.

  Marc ar’Dru had been comforted by the awareness that Ivern wouldn’t dare to kill him out of hand, or even do something that would leave physical evidence needing explanation to Kurek. Either case would prove he had been usurping a lord’s authority under his own roof, and that was and activity not only dishonourable, but dangerous, even when the lord was far less…volatile than Kurek ar’Kelayr seemed to be.

  But the cut of the whip shattered that illusion, and made him realized that just for the moment, Ivern didn’t care what Kurek might think.

  There was no hiss of it being drawn back, just a deafening crack as it hit him. The thin lash, ten inches of plaited leather thongs, slashed across Marc’s face from the corner of one eye down to the point of the jaw. The weal it left behind burned like the track of a hot iron, and in a few seconds he could feel a thin warm trickle running down to his chin and dripping off it. But if they wanted to hear him cry out, they were using the wrong instrument. The shock of the quirt’s impact had a stunning effect, and though it throbbed damnably now, the real pain wouldn’t make itself felt until later.

  Marc ground his teeth on a savage grin that managed to conceal the terror fluttering in his belly, and decided that he wouldn’t bother mentioning this mistake. Whether through youth, or lack of the more brutal forms of experience that had been available in Drosul, or just plain anger, Ivern hadn’t yet thought of using proper methods of rigorous interrogation. Foremost in Marc’s mind was an intention to keep him from thinking of them. If that meant he would have to suffer an ordinary beating, then he would.

  And he would be grateful for nothing worse.

  There had been an abortive rising against King Daykin of Kalitz, three years before the Landing in Alba. Marc had been only a cavalry Captain-of-Ten, and had seen no action to speak of; but he had commanded part of the guard detachment during the execution of the rebellion’s ringleaders. It hadn’t been anything excessively complicated or cruel – half-hanging followed by decapitation for the most part, and then the heads and bodies burned on a great fire – since there were so many victims that anything more elaborate would have taken all day.

  But what had stuck in his mind had been the sight of the men and women who had undergone extreme questioning before they died.

  Not all had been tortured: some had confessed on capture and their confessions proven correct enough that no further encouragement was needed. Others had been taken late enough in the business that nothing they knew was of any use, and they were simply used as numbers to complete the example King Daykin intended to make.

  For all his crooked cunning and political machinations, he was a strangely non-vindictive man, that little king. He had said that a certain number of the rebels would die, and a certain number it had been. A large number, certainly, but no more than that. Further reprisals were strictly forbidden, Daykin’s intention and hope being that the sooner all this was forgotten, the sooner there would be peace again. It might have been optimism then. It was still working now.

  But it had done nothing for those who had suffered the full rigors of a Droselan interrogation.

  Marc had sat in his saddle at parade-rest, now and again needing to quiet his restless horse, and watched them pass by in the wooden carts. He had heard the thin noises drifting up over the rumble of the wheels, and he had known that the waiting noose and cleaver no longer held any terrors for these people. Rope and edge would be a blessing and a mercy for each one.

  Blank faces whose features had become open wounds: without eyes, without noses, without ears, they retained only their all-important tongues. Hands and feet lacking fingers and toes, cut away or wrenched from the sockets; limbs dislocated by weights and pulleys; skin welted by far heavier whips than was being used on him, or seamed and crisped by fire and heated oil and molten metal. These were no longer people on their way to execution. They were just carcasses heading for the final stage of a butchery that had begun a week before.

  Some of them might have been reluctant to betray comrades or friends or family. But other had truly been ignorant. The end result had been the same.

  And no matter what questions Ivern might think of asking, Marc was in that position now. He had no answers with which to save
himself. And the end result, unless he was very lucky indeed, would still be the same.

  “Again, lord?” said the deep voice. There were footsteps, and Marc craned around far enough to see that the bulky shape standing beside him was one Etek ar’Gellan, a low-clan kailin who fulfilled the function of Ivern’s chief henchman – as near in rank to a Bannerman Companion that a younger son could aspire to – as well as his bodyguard and, apparently, torturer.

  “No.” Ivern smiled nastily and held out one hand for the quirt, then stood in silence for a few seconds while he ran the thin lash through his fingers in the approved manner of someone who could use melodramatic clichés with a straight face. “Not yet. Wait.”

  “Why wait?” Marc spat out something – skin, blood, a flake of leather – and stared malevolently at ar’Diskan. The other man looked surprised.

  “Bold words,” he said.

  “Practical words. You can beat me all day and all night and I’ll never tell you a thing.”

  Ivern whistled thinly between his teeth. “Bold words indeed, ar’Dru. Do you think that you’re so strong?”

  “No. I just don’t bloody know what you’re talking about!”

  Ivern sighed, the sound of someone wearied by the constant foolishness of his fellow men, and returned the quirt to ar’Gellan. “That’s what they all say.” He made a small gesture of dismissal with one hand. “Hit him again.”

  A few shrill, pain-filled seconds later, and Marc ar’Dru had no doubt about what he was spitting this time. It was definitely blood. Lines of searing heat crisscrossed his face and shoulders, his lips were split and one eye was swelling shut. And yet, underneath all the hurt, Marc felt grimly pleased with himself.

  He had never thought of himself before as being particularly brave, but if bravery meant the ability to defy and mock an enemy when that enemy held the upper hand, then he supposed he was being brave after all. Especially when the difference between courage and cowardice was also the difference between leaving this cellar with all his limbs and organs in their proper place…

  Or not.

  The consequences of that wisecrack hadn’t been so stupid as it might have sounded, because it meant he had read Ivern ar’Diskan perfectly. Though it wasn’t going to get him out of this unscathed, it might keep the damage to an acceptable level.

  Ivern wasn’t much of a sadist, or if he was, he was hiding his enjoyment well. But he was much more a character out of those Droselan melodramas he seemed so fond of, though the little bastard didn’t even know it. He plainly thought that his theatrical words and gestures were the height of sophistication, and Marc prayed he had never been to the Iron Theatre of Durforen, with its productions based around bloody revenge and elaborate cruelty. From Marc’s point of view Ivern was playing the villain’s part. That much was painfully obvious.

  But seen from Ivern’s side, he was the hero who trapped a spy and potential traitor, one who had weaseled himself into the Clan-Lord ar’Kelayr’s good graces – and in so doing, pushed Ivern ar’Diskan out. That reasoning was at least preferable to accepting he might no longer be as useful as he had been.

  And there lay the difference between them. After what had happened at Dunrath and on the way here, Marc was still grateful for any appreciation at all that a lord might show him. Ivern, on the other hand, had grown addicted to it.

  “You’re going to have some explaining to do when Kurek sees my face,” Marc said. As the words left his mouth he thought for the first time about why he had been hit so consistently about what had been a fairly handsome face. His guts clenched momentarily into a cold, hard knot as he realized there might, just might, be a reason behind Ivern’s fury that he had never even considered. Not wounded pride, not concern for loss of status.

  Just simple jealousy.

  And that was the most dangerous of all, because it was far less inclined to listen to reason.

  Ivern had recovered the quirt again – he seemed to think it gave a worthwhile emphasis to the difference in their positions, even though using it himself was beneath him – and was tapping it lightly against his palm. “If he ever does,” he said.

  “Bold words, as you might say yourself. Then I’ll be interested to hear how you’ll account for my disappearance. You’ve given it some thought, I presume?”

  The look that flicked across Ivern’s face told Marc that he hadn’t given it any thought at all. He was right, and that had been sufficient – until now, when the little worm of doubt began to bore into the apple of certainty. He had seen fear of Kurek on Ivern’s face before, and then with no more apparent reason than now.

  Marc ar’Dru wondered what hold Kurek had over his supporters to produce such an effect as this. For all his quick flashes of anger, all the starker for appearing out of the midst of a smile, he had never shown himself cruel.

  And not just needlessly cruel. In a race of hard and often ruthless people, ruled by lords who of necessity sometimes had to be just as hard and ruthless, Kurek was one of the most benevolent clan-lords Marc had ever seen. Almost unnaturally so. He wondered what the other side of the coin might look like, and guessed that Ivern had seen it at least once.

  That was a string a wise man might play on to his own advantage.

  “Before you do some permanent harm that we’ll both regret,” he said carefully, “me right now, and you when Kurek finds out about it, why not listen to me? It’s willing information, not something to stop your,” he glanced sidelong at Etek, reluctant to grant the big lout any sort of formal title, “your friend from hitting me.”

  Ivern coiled the quirt’s lash around its stock and used it to chuck Marc under the chin. “Why should I?” he said.

  “Why not? It’s not going to hurt you.” Marc tried a quick, grim smile and winced as it split his lip still further. “Or me, just for a change.”

  “I’m listening.”

  “Then what am I supposed to be doing? Who sent me? Why? What for?” The whipstock nudged his jaw, not roughly, just a warning, but he flinched as its braided surface rasped against broken skin.

  “I’ll ask the questions, ar’Dru.”

  Marc closed his eyes and groaned. He should have expected that response. Damn it to the Nine Hot Hells, he should have expected those very words. Straight from the script of a third-rate play. What he needed most of all was not some indication of what was going on, but a copy of the script for whatever production Ivern ar’Diskan thought he was performing in. And the first thing he would do would be to look at the last page and find out if he survived that long. At least there was one person he could blame, and be sure of getting it right.

  “This is all Bayrd ar’Talvlyn’s fault,” he said viciously.

  “Now we’re getting somewhere.” Ivern’s voice was approving, and Marc stared at him. Realization dawned like the sun coming out from behind a cloud.

  “Is that what you think…?” he said. “I was sent by him?” Ivern nodded silently. “To spy for him?” Another nod. Marc licked his lips, tasted the blood, felt the sting of raw flesh. “To get myself hurt, or maimed, or maybe even killed… For him?”

  “You are Bannerman to clan Talvalin,” said Ivern. “Bayrd’s best friend. Your honour would…”

  Despite the pain that was beginning to grow in his face, he almost laughed out loud. But a boiling hatred of his once-friend was also fighting for precedence. Finally Marc could do nothing but glare in disbelief, for the few seconds he needed to rec-channel that anger against the smirking idiot who stood in front of him.

  “I was, you imbecile,” he snarled at last, lurching forward in the chair as if trying to sink his teeth in Ivern’s arm. “Was, was, was! Can’t you understand that? Past! Done with! Gone! You blind, deaf, stupid, bloody-minded idiot! And you have the gall to harp about my honour? What honour has ar’Talvlyn left me? Eh? Eh? Answer me that if you can!”

  Ivern blinked at such an outburst from a man tied prisoner, and his confidence wavered. “I thought—” he started to say.


  “You thought? No! You didn’t think at all! Didn’t you hear what I told Kurek when I first came to Erdanor? Can’t you see my hair? Would a kailin-eir Bannerman throw over all I had, throw aside my honour and my respect, turn eijo and lay myself open to murder by old enemies once I was out of the protection of a high-clan lord, and all on a pretence?”

  Ivern ar’Diskan stared at him as the outburst died away, and Marc could almost hear the abacus-like ticking as fact and surmise and supposition each slotted into their proper place.

  Or maybe it was just the patter of blood dripping off his chin.

  The man couldn’t be so stupid as to miss something that obvious, could he? But then, Marc suspected there was a horrible correctness when he had called him someone who didn’t think at all. Ivern was young – young enough, indeed, that if truth were told he probably wasn’t yet entitled to the warrior’s braid he wore – but for all his youth he had the single-minded, or more likely mindless, stubbornness of the oldest Alban lords. The sort of men who, if they could once be convinced that black was white or wet was dry, would defend that view to the last drop of their and all their retainers’ blood.

  “A pretty speech, and well-delivered,” Ivern said at last, and he looked almost regretful. Marc swore inwardly, feeling a renewed tingle of fear through his ebbing anger. “But it’s almost exactly the thing a spy would say. If he was well primed, and expecting an interrogation like this.”

  “If he was all of that,” said Marc, “then wouldn’t the speech be something else? Something you wouldn’t expect?” The anger flashed again, useless now, but as hot and bright as oil spilled on hot coals. “Or do you just think everyone’s as stupid as you?”

  It went past ar’Diskan as though he hadn’t heard it. He was too busy securing the quirt, lash to stock to wrist-strap, and that looked sinister. It implied that he was done with such inconsequential methods of persuasion. “You were right about your face,” he said with a brief glance over his shoulder. “Explaining it would be difficult. Unless I have proof one way or the other.”