by Claire Frank
“So, what’s it going to be?” Callum asked, speaking slowly. “What sorts of fears do you keep tucked away? Is it water? Can you picture your face plunged beneath cold, dark water, your lungs bursting for air?” He paused, gauging the prisoner’s reaction, but there was little to see. No one particularly enjoyed the thought of drowning, but Callum hadn’t hit a nerve with that suggestion.
“Hanging, perhaps? Strangled by a rope around your neck as your feet kick at the ground.” The prisoner continued to stare. That wasn’t it. “Snakes? Slithering creatures with their fangs bared. No? Spiders, perhaps, their spindly legs crawling all over you. I know, heights. We could go up top and dangle our legs from the Lyceum Span.” The prisoner didn’t flinch.
“Trapped underground then?” Callum continued. The man’s eye twitched, almost imperceptibly. Interesting. “Blanketed in darkness, a weight of stone pressing down on you while your air runs out.” The pace of his breathing increased and Callum could almost hear his heartbeat quicken. That should do it.
Callum stood and straightened his coat as he walked toward the door. Unable to help himself, he Projected a whisper of fear into the air. “Excellent. I’ll be back. Do give us a shout and let us know if you notice any cracking in the ceiling or walls. We’re deep underground, you know, and I’ve been meaning to have it repaired, but I really can’t be certain of the ceiling’s integrity, especially if it rains.”
***
Wheels rattled down the corridor as Callum made his way back to the prisoner several hours later. Two men followed, pushing a rolling table covered by a thick cloth. Callum unlocked the door and held it open while the men wheeled the table inside. The prisoner looked up, blinking at the sudden light from Callum’s lamp, his eyes straying to the other men and the draped table as they pushed it against the wall.
“Ah, good, you’re still here,” Callum said. The prisoner glared at him. “Forgive my lack of manners. These are my associates. Their names aren’t really important. It’s what they can do that will be of interest to you.”
With a flourish, Callum whipped the cloth from the table, revealing a rectangular stone container, reminiscent of a coffin. Slightly longer than a man, it was fashioned of smooth gray rock that looked dull in the dim light.
“I wish I could take credit for this little invention. I did have the honor of naming it, though, and I have to tell you, I’ve been wanting to try it for a long time now. Despite the fair amount of trouble you’ve caused me, I suppose we can call this a silver lining.”
Callum walked around to the head of the table and pressed his hands against a seam in the rock while the other two men helped him push. The lid separated from the base and slid backward along the rim, revealing a curved space inside.
“I present to you, the Box,” Callum said, extending his arm in an exaggerated gesture. The prisoner kept his eyes locked on the wall. “What? You don’t like the name? You’re right, it’s terrible. I should really think of something a little more creative. Thankfully, it’s far more useful than its name implies.”
With a tip of his head, Callum gestured to his two companions. Without a word, they moved to either side of the prisoner and grabbed him beneath the arms.
“What are you doing?” the prisoner said, his head darting from side to side. “Get your hands off me.”
Struggling, he twisted and thrashed, trying to escape their grasp. Callum grabbed his bound feet as the other two picked him up by his top half and they hoisted him into the stone box. Despite his struggling, they pressed him down into the depression as Callum slid the lid back over the top.
“Put your head back now, I’d hate to nick you with the lid,” Callum said.
“What is this? Let me out!”
The prisoner kept his head defiantly raised, so Callum pushed the lid into his chin. His head rocked back, smacking into the bottom of the box, and Callum slipped the lid closed. The muffled sounds of shouting drifted through the stone.
“You’ll have to wait a moment, I can’t quite hear you,” Callum said and turned to the other men with a wink.
Feeling around on the side of the box, near the prisoner’s head, Callum found a small plug made of cork. He removed it, pulling it free, and did the same on the other side, then tucked the corks in his pocket. The noise of the prisoner’s protests poured from the holes, the pitch of his voice quickly rising.
Callum leaned down near the hole on one side. “Now, now, that certainly isn’t going to help. How can you hear me if you keep on like that?”
Two similar holes were in the top, near the prisoner’s face, and Callum pulled the stoppers. “There. Now we can have a proper chat.”
The prisoner kept shouting, his words lost in a frenzy of panic. Callum crossed his arms as he waited, tapping his foot. With a glance at the other two men, he rolled his eyes and let out a heavy sigh.
“I’m not feeling terribly patient today,” Callum said.
Beneath the table was a shelf, stocked with various items Callum had thought he might need. He didn’t anticipate using any of the sharper instruments. They were there in case it became necessary, but the box itself should be plenty effective. He grabbed a pitcher full of stagnant water and raised it over the openings in the top.
“I’m going to have to ask you to be quiet now,” he said, raising his voice to be heard above the incoherent rambling.
The babbling went on, so Callum poured dingy water in through the top. The prisoner coughed and sputtered until Callum stopped and the water drained out the side holes.
“Although you seemed to think that drowning didn’t sound so terrible, I assure you, it’s a decidedly unpleasant experience,” Callum said. “I happen to know. So if you’d like to continue breathing air, I suggest you keep quiet until it’s time to answer my questions.”
He was answered by another cough, then silence, so he put the pitcher down. “There we are, that wasn’t so difficult. Now that I have your attention, I mentioned before that you may be interested in the particular talents of my associates here. You may not know it to look at them, but they’re both rather talented Stone Shapers.” He glanced at the two men standing nearby. They had yet to speak a word, but Callum found their propensity for silence among their best qualities. He didn’t like being interrupted. “So many people with an affinity for stone seem to be built like they’re made of the stuff, don’t you think? These two may be a bit slight, but they’re some of the best Shapers I know.”
Callum nodded and the two men stepped forward, placing their hands on the box.
“The Box is their rather ingenious invention. As you can see from where you are, it’s made of solid stone, and we’ve provided some very convenient holes for you to hear and breathe from. Those are necessary, as the walls of the box are quite thick. I don’t think you’d last long without them.”
Walking around to the top of the box, he tapped on the stone above the prisoner’s face and the man let out a muffled whimper. “I suppose you’re asking yourself, what makes this box so special? You wouldn’t even need to be a Shaper to carve something like this. It’s just a box.” He nodded to the two Shapers. “This, my sneaky assassin, is what makes it interesting.”
The Shapers pressed their hands into the stone and the prisoner’s muffled voice rose from the inside.
“What? What is this? What’s happening?”
“They’re molding it to your body,” Callum said as he watched the men work. “They’ll leave you just enough room to move your mouth, but not much more, I expect. The stone is forming around you.”
“No, please!” the prisoner said, his voice high with panic. “Let me out!”
Callum clicked his tongue again. “All in due time. First, take a few breaths. I know the stone is heavy against your chest, but if you keep breathing so fast you’re going to pass out.”
The prisoner’s breath whistled through the holes.
“Good. See, this isn’t so bad. For now, the box is still sitting in the room, and I pu
t the pitcher of water away. If you cooperate, I won’t pour any more water down your breathing holes, and I won’t have these two fine gentlemen bury the box. If not—well, I can’t make you any promises.”
“No!” the prisoner said, screeching.
“It’s entirely up to you what happens next,” Callum said, and gestured to the Shapers that they could leave. They went, closing the door silently. “Shall we talk?”
No answer came from the box, just the sound of shaky breathing.
“Very well. I could start by asking your name, but I don’t really care what your mother called you. I would like to know what you were doing, trying to climb in the back window of a house near the market.”
“I … no.”
“No? Hmm, that’s not quite what I was looking for. How does that lid feel? It looks thick from out here. Can you move your legs at all?”
A muffled whimpering came from the box and Callum decided to move things along. Trailing his fingers along the rim of the stone, he sent out a Projection of fear. Keeping it low to begin, he pressed it into the box, and the prisoner’s moaning increased.
“The lid is quite heavy, isn’t it? Pressing against your face, pinning your arms in place. I can’t imagine that’s comfortable.” Callum paused, listening to the prisoner take shuddering breaths. “I need to know why you were at that house.”
The prisoner’s voice was breathy as he spoke. “Orders. I was following orders.”
“Orders to do what?”
“Deliver the package,” he said.
“I’m afraid you’re going to have to be more specific if you’d like me to let you out of this box,” Callum said. He already knew what the package was; they’d found a small pouch of fine, white powder on the assassin when they’d captured him. Unfortunately, it wasn’t a substance Callum was familiar with. He was having a friend examine it to see if he could determine what they were dealing with, but he wanted to get more out of his prisoner. Turning up the fear, Callum waited.
“Target,” the prisoner said. “Kill the target.”
“Of course; that’s what I thought,” Callum said. “And this isn’t the first?”
“No.”
“Good. That accent of yours. I almost can’t hear it. Where are you from?”
“No, no, no, no,” the prisoner said.
Callum drummed his fingers on the box again. He was losing the man to panic. Too much, and he’d be nothing but a slobbering mess, saying whatever he thought Callum wanted to hear. But the usefulness of such confessions was always suspect. He altered his Projection and battered the prisoner with elation, and his moans turned to sudden laughter.
“That’s fun, isn’t it?” Callum asked, as the prisoner alternated between a pained giggle and sharp gasps. “Now, where are you from?” He twisted his Projection back to fear.
“Stop, please,” the prisoner said. “Attalon. I came from Attalon.”
No surprise, there. “How many assassins are there?”
“I don’t know.”
Callum pushed more fear at him.
“I swear,” he said between wheezing breaths. “I don’t know. I can’t move. I can’t breathe. You have to let me out. I was sent here alone. The others came at different times, so we could escape notice.”
“Interesting,” Callum said. “How does your poison work?”
“I can’t. Just kill me. I’m dead anyway.”
“I went to a great deal of trouble to capture you,” Callum said. “Death isn’t on the agenda today.”
“What do you want? Please.”
“How does your poison work?” Callum said, enunciating each word.
“Slow,” the prisoner said. “They sleep and don’t wake up. That’s all.”
That was disconcerting. But if they simply died in their sleep, it explained why none of the victims showed signs of poisoning. “How do you get your orders?”
“There’s a house. I go there and they give me the name and location. And money. Half before, half when it’s done. Please. Let me out.”
“We’re almost done here,” Callum said, his tone soothing. “Where’s the house?”
“Oh, gods, I am ruined. It is over; I am ruined.”
“You really are, so you might as well tell me where I can find this house.”
The prisoner hesitated, his breath coming in trembling gulps. “In the Sahaaran district. South. Edge of the city, next to a small baker’s shop. Brick building with a black door. An old Sahaaran woman lives there. She lets us come and go, and we let her stay. I get a message that there is a package for me, I go there. When it’s done, I go back and collect the rest. That’s all. That’s all I know. I swear it. Please.”
Callum brushed his hair from his eyes and nodded. “Good. Well, I think we’re done here.”
Reaching into his pocket, he found the two small corks he’d taken out of the sides and slid them back in the small holes while the assassin kept talking. Callum ignored his pleas to be set free as he pressed his fingers against the plugs to ensure that they were secure. He grabbed the water pitcher from beneath the table and pulled out a second, just to be sure.
He tipped the pitcher, pouring the water in through the air holes in the top. The prisoner’s cry was stifled into blubbers as Callum drained the first pitcher. Tilting the second, he let the water flow into the box until it overflowed from the small air holes. The tight fit ensured the water had nowhere to go, and he walked away as the prisoner’s gurgles faded to silence.
51. SECRETS
Isley leaned back against her cushions and took a sip of chilled wine, the delicate flavor dancing on her tongue. A light breeze blew through her hair and the sun warmed her skin. The rooftop garden had become one of her favorite escapes, a place where she could relax and enjoy the warm Attalonian air. The palace had certainly grown on her the longer she stayed. Why had she ever wanted to leave this place? Servants, most of whom believed her to be the reincarnation of a goddess, waited on her every whim. And who was to say she wasn’t, really?
You are not a goddess. We are trapped here.
“Oh, hush now,” Isley said. “Trapped is such a dramatic word.”
We are not safe.
Isley blew out a breath and set down her glass. They had a point. She wasn’t entirely safe, and wouldn’t be until she could secure her position. Being the mother of the heir was a start, but she knew a day would come when her son would no longer have need of a mother. Who would she be then? She couldn’t rely on the Emperor’s plans for her son to ensure her place. She needed power in her own right.
Picking up a dried fig, she nibbled at the soft fruit. Axxus had left weeks ago, and Isley had been searching in vain for some way to corner General Gwinele. The woman was infuriating, always whispering in the Emperor’s ear. At first Isley had been convinced Gwinele was jealous of Axxus, and wished to be sent to Halthas in his place. But as she probed, questioning the servants, she didn’t find anything that was terribly useful to her. Gwinele might well be hot with envy, but Isley couldn’t find a way to exploit it. She needed some way to show the Emperor that his favorite was not so trustworthy as he believed, to make him question Gwinele’s advice and counsel.
A young woman in a beige dress, with gold bands on her arms, knelt with a pitcher and refilled Isley’s glass. Her eyes strayed to the sculpture looming over them and Isley smiled. The likeness was quite extraordinary, and the lovely marble statue was another reason she loved the garden. It was always useful to remind the servants of who she was.
“Go on,” Isley said as the serving girl hesitated. She gasped at Isley’s voice and stood, shuffling away on quiet feet.
Brynn passed the girl on her way out and came to stand in front of Isley. “Reinara,” she said, bending in a low bow.
Isley trailed her finger along the condensation on her glass. “How is Caen?”
“Asleep, Reinara,” Brynn said.
“Then why are you here?”
Brynn glanced over her shoulder. �
�I brought someone who would speak to you. Tess serves General Gwinele.”
Isley raised her eyebrows. Most of the servants in the palace treated her with deference, bowing before her and calling her “Reinara.” But the men and women who served Gwinele had clearly been poisoned against her. They would scarcely look at her, let alone speak to her. It made it very difficult to find out anything about the general, when her entire household staff was so tight-lipped.
“Bring her.”
Brynn led a plump woman, of an age with Isley, her hair pulled back in a tight bun. Like all the servants, she wore a loose beige dress, belted at the waist, and gold bands on her arms. Isley knew the bands meant she was a Wielder; she wondered what sort of ability this one had.
“Hello, Tess,” Isley said, giving her a sweet smile. “Please, sit with me.”
Tess swallowed and glanced at Brynn before lowering herself to the ground near Isley’s feet.
“Would you like something to eat?” Isley asked.
“No, Reinara Isley,” Tess said.
This is good.
“Yes, it is good,” Isley said. Tess’s eyes tightened, but Isley continued. “I’m so pleased you came to see me. I would like to ask you a few questions. Will that be all right?”
Tess nodded. She sat with her back straight, her legs bent to the side. Her eyes darted up to the sculpture and back to Isley repeatedly.
“Tess, you serve the esteemed General Gwinele, is that right?”
“Yes, Reinara,” Tess said.
“How long have you been with the general?”
“It has been many years. I was young when I was brought here as a gift for my mistress.”
Isley tilted her head. It was such a shame she couldn’t Wield. It would have made the process easier. “How marvelous for you. The general treats you well?”
“She does.”
“Of course. She is not so fond of me, though,” Isley said.