Imperial Stars 3-The Crash of Empire (39 page)

The secretary shook his head. "He lives on his farm. Most of his neighbors seem to be a bit envious of him. No one but this Mord has actually made any accusation, but it's obvious that few tears would be shed if misfortune overtook Kanlor."

"Interesting. And what about Mord?"

"Slovenly farmer, sir. Neglects his fields, though he does manage to scratch out a living and pay his bills. Frequents the tavern and spends a lot of time at the fairs. He lives in the village."

"Married?"

The secretary tilted his head. "Yes, and he has a pair of scrawny children as well. But the man has a certain popularity. He's no brawler and he has a ready wit. The villagers are tolerant of him and the tavern crowd follows his lead."

The Chief Examiner got to his feet. "I find that this information against the man Kanlor has merit," he said loudly. "We shall pursue an inquiry and bring him before this tribunal shortly." He looked at the local judges, who had moved a bit apart.

"Subject, of course, to any comments you gentlemen might have," he added.

The three men looked uneasily at each other, then turned to face the Chief Examiner.

"We are of the same opinion as your lordship," one said.

Pen Qatorn nodded curtly. "Very well, gentlemen, we shall meet tomorrow after lunch to consider any further information that may come to light. We may, perhaps, question the man Kanlor at that time." He threw a stern glance at the guardsmen who flanked the judicial table.

"Surely, we shall question the man no later than the second day." He rose and strode from the room.

The secretary followed pen Qatorn to a small room, then closed the door and turned to his chief.

"How about this Mord?" he asked. "He's asking compensation."

Pen Qatorn smiled. "And for a long list of claims, I have no doubt. Oh, I think we can allow him a bit for his losses," he decided. "And you might do a little inquiring as to the value of his holdings." He pursed his lips.

"You know, it's a serious crime to make false claim. Too, this informant has been associated with the suspect Kanlor for some time and he shows a certain knowledge of magic himself. It might be well to inquire closely into his activities."

The secretary nodded, then backed away and went through the door. Outside, he shook his head, smiling.

Old fox
, he said to himself.
He never misses a thing. Going or coming, he's got them.
He fingered one of his gold rings as he went through an archway, to pace across a small courtyard.

An inconspicuous brown beetle had been perched on a curtain. It flew silently to him and concealed itself in a fold of his clothing.

For a time, he was no more than a free mind, floating in a shapeless void with neither identity nor feeling. Then there was pain. At first, a tiny, hesitant ache insinuated itself. Then it grew to become a throbbing flood of agony. He tried to move a hand, but something held it behind him and the effort made the blinding throb become more acute. He breathed deeply and red flames stabbed at chest and side.

A flood of evil-smelling water poured over him and he jerked his head back. His eyes opened. Now, he remembered. He was Wysrin Kanlor. He had been in a field when guardsmen had come for him, and dragged him from his
garn
. He could remember no words, but there had been kicks and blows, then nothingness.

Dazedly, he looked about at vaguely seen rafters, then at a huge, fat man who towered over him and finally reached down to drag him to his feet.

"Come along, witch," the man ordered. "The Examiner, pen Qatorn, would have words with you." He jerked on a chain and Kanlor's head throbbed as a leash pulled at his neck. He stumbled after his captor.

They went through an arch, then turned. Kanlor's eyesight was clearing and he could see men in somber robes who sat at a table above him. The man in the middle spoke.

"Your name is Wysrin Kanlor. Is this true?"

"Yes. But why—"

"Silence! I shall ask the questions. You have but to answer—and truthfully."

The big man slashed the back of his hand across Kanlor's face.

"And address the Examiner as 'his lordship,' " he ordered.

Kanlor swayed dizzily, then recovered his balance.

The Examiner continued. "And for how long have you been delving into black sorcery?"

Kanlor's eyes widened. "But I—"

Again the hard hand slammed at his face.

"Answer. Don't try to evade his lordship's questions."

"I ask you again, Wysrin Kanlor," the Examiner said sternly, "how long have you been a witch?"

"Your lordship, I have never been a witch."

The Examiner frowned. "The man is reluctant," he commented. "He answers, but his answers mean nothing. He has yet to learn the value of truth. Sir Executioner, perhaps you might instruct him?"

The large man nodded. "Thumbscrews," he ordered.

There was a movement behind Kanlor, then he felt something being clamped to his right thumb. Pressure was swiftly exerted and raging pain shot up his arm. He barely choked back a scream.

Pen Qatorn looked at him coldly. "You have been using black sorcery to the damage of your neighbors. For how long have you done this? Five years? Six?"

Kanlor stared at him silently. Pen Qatorn watched for a moment, then continued.

"We shall come back to that again. Why did you become a witch?"

There was a jerk at Kanlor's hand and the pressure on his thumb increased. A clamp was placed on his other thumb and tightened. His mouth flew open in shocked disbelief. This, he told himself, simply was not happening. It was a horrible dream. He . . .

The pressure was abruptly increased and a scream started to well from his throat. He clamped his lips fiercely shut. It was no dream and nothing he could say would help. He stared silently at the Examiner. Pen Qatorn frowned.

"How did you become a witch? What was done at that time? Who is your evil master?" He paused.

More clamps were fastened to Kanlor's fingers and tightened. His hands throbbed and the muscles of his arms tightened and cramped.

"Well, will you answer? How long have you been a witch?"

Kanlor drew a shuddering breath, then closed his eyes. Pen Qatorn glared at him, then turned to his secretary.

"Let it be noted that the man is taciturn," he remarked. He looked back at Kanlor.

"Oh, have no doubt. You shall answer these questions," he said coldly. "These and more. It will but take time." He moved his hand.

"Take him to the torture chamber. There, he may realize the error of his ways."

The Executioner jerked at the leash, forcing Kanlor to follow. They went through a hall and down a short flight of steps, to come out into a large room. On the walls hung tongs, pincers, branding irons and other implements unfamiliar to Kanlor. The Executioner glanced around for a moment, then jerked his captive toward the center of the room, signing to a pair of assistants.

Overhead, a pulley was fastened to the rafters. A thick rope had been threaded through it and hung, its ends tied to a ring set in the floor. An assistant untied one end of the rope, then went to Kanlor and secured it to his wrist bonds. He slipped the other end from the ring and pulled on it till Kanlor was forced to bend over. The other assistant looped the free end of the rope through the ring again and took up the slack. They stood, eyeing their chief.

The Executioner nodded. "Take him up a bit."

The assistants hauled away and Kanlor swung a meter above the floor. A knot was tied, securing the rope end to the ring and again, the assistants watched their chief, who smiled approvingly at them.

"Very good," he said. He looked at Kanlor.

"Now, we are just ordinary men," he said reasonably, "who have to do our job. We have no real desire to do you hurt, or to cause you needless pain." He smiled disarmingly. "In fact, we really don't like to do it. Why don't you be a good fellow? Let me bring his lordship here so you can answer his questions. It will make it easier for all of us. Your hurts will be tended and we won't have to go to great efforts. How about it?"

Momentarily, the thought entered Kanlor's mind that the man might be right. Perhaps he should simply answer. Then he remembered the questions. He could do himself no good, however he spoke. He closed his eyes, ignoring the fat man.

"Well, I tried." The Executioner sighed resignedly. "We shall leave you in the rafters for a time. You may consider and think of what you will tell the Examiner when he again deigns to consider you." He waved a hand.

"Pull him up, boys," he ordered. "We'd as well go out for a bite to eat." He turned toward the steps.

Wysrin Kanlor was no weakling. Long hours of work with shovel, hay hook, and flail had given him powerful arm and shoulder muscles. He found that he could support his weight even in this unaccustomed position. For a while, he even thought he might be able to pull his body between his arms, swing himself up, and somehow undo the ropes with his teeth. Maybe he might be able somehow to escape. But there simply wasn't space for his body to pass between his arms. Blood rushed to his head and he was forced to give up the effort and to dangle, breathing heavily.

His shoulders began to ache with the strain, then the muscles of his chest added their complaints. Time passed and the ache became a numbing sea of pain. He breathed in agonized gasps, dimly wondering how many eternities he had been up here, and how many more long eons it would be before he was taken down.

He tried to focus his eyes on the stone floor, but the flagstones blended into a blurred, gray mass. Agony spread over his entire upper body, then even his legs began to cramp.

And still he hung from the pulley, gasping through wide-open mouth and wondering how long it might be before his shoulders would tear loose to drop him to the floor below.

At last, he stopped even wondering and simply hung, submerged in formless pain.

Dimly, as from a long distance, he heard footsteps. The rope vibrated. Suddenly he was falling, only to stop with a violent jerk that tore muscles and tendons. A startled scream forced its way from him.

"The man is not truly dumb, your lordship," said a voice. "Perchance he can answer your questions now."

"Your name? Come, fellow, give your name." The second voice was imperious.

Kanlor managed to open his eyes.

"Please," he croaked. "Let me down."

"Later. You have questions to answer now. Come, now, what is your name?"

"Kanlor. Wysrin Kanlor. It hurts!"

"Never mind whining. Just answer. How long have you been a witch? Five years?"

"I'm not a—"

"Fellow, we've been most forbearing with you. Now if you persist in your refusal to answer, we will have to put you to the torture. Once again, how long have you been a witch?"

Kanlor closed his eyes. Talking did no good and it took too much effort. Perhaps if he hung here for long, his heart would stop. The peace of death would be better than long periods of suffering.

"The man is still taciturn. Indicate to him what may lie ahead should he persist in his silence."

Kanlor felt liquid being poured over his head. A rag was roughly wiped over his face. He could feel a chill on his back as some of it trickled down his spine. A torch was brought near and suddenly, his head and shoulders were enveloped in flame. Desperately, he held his breath, refusing to let out the screams that fought to be released—holding back sudden madness that tore at him.

The flare died as the alcohol burned out. Cold salt water was dashed over him and every nerve screamed in outrage.

All at once, he was coldly, clearly sane and aware. He had seen people burned over large parts of their bodies. They never survived. He would never again walk the fields; this, he knew.

But they'll get little satisfaction
, he told himself fiercely.
I may not live, but I can die silent.

Dimly, he heard question after question. He sealed his lips, holding one all-encompassing thought.
Silence!

At last, he was taken down and bedded in some straw, only to be awakened for more questions. Someone explained to him the ways of witches.

"So, you see, you will be giving away no secret," he was told. "We only wish that you may purge yourself of your sin."

He lost all track of time. Questioners hammered at him. Variations of torture were tested. At times, he lost consciousness, only to be roused by buckets of cold water. There came a time when he was unsure as to whether he was speaking or not.

And there were other times when he wondered if perhaps he had, by some force of his desires, caused drought, raging flames in neighbors' fields, death of cattle.

At last, he realized vaguely that he was being supported by two men and taken to the open air. There were many people. He was chained, then left alone.

Then flames and smoke surrounded him and he waited for an end. It would be relief. He fainted.

Carlsen watched the viewscreen as relayed recordings flashed across it. His hands flicked over the editing controls as he alternately speeded and slowed the presentation. Suddenly, he straightened and brought the presentation to normal speed. This one was recent.

He watched as the victim was stretched on a rack, then listened as unanswered questions were asked. He glanced at the data panel and shook his head furiously.

That was less than an hour ago!

Abruptly, he snapped the recorders off and turned to his flight controls.

I've had it! It's not all that far to Varsana. The devil with concealment. Let 'em hear a good, solid sonic boom. Might give 'em something to worry about.

The ship leveled off at two thousand meters and streaked toward the town at the head of the valley. Ahead and below, the plaza came into view and Carlsen kicked up magnification, then swore and threw the ship into a screaming dive.

Pen Qatorn stood before the wide door of the House of Questioning and watched as Kanlor was fastened to the execution post.

"This," he said, "is a stubborn witch. Not a word from him. May there be few like that."