Judgment II: Mercy (12 page)

It was after the supper hour and the Lessers had all moved on to the library. Most of them were joking and talking, but a good many—like Mercy—with white demerit buttons affixed to the fronts of their tunics, waited in frightened silence for the Black Master to call them to justice. Hutch, as the black band around his right arm declared, had drawn Demerit Duty this week. He ran a finger down the list detailing the night's work ahead of him and, to Mercy at least, he didn't seem all that distressed. Not even when, with another shake of his head, he good-naturedly complained, "I'm going to need someone to spell my arm."

Far behind him, Mercy hovered in the shadows, waiting for him to move on so she might look for her name on the list.

She knew it was there. It was silly to hope otherwise, and to be honest she wasn't quite sure if she did hope that at all.

She had done the misdeed, she needed to pay the price. That was all there was to it. But, oh, she hurt so much already.

This had been her second night in a row eating standing up, a blessing rather than an inconvenience, and she touched her bottom gingerly.

Her own gentle fingertips made her wince. The thought of having to face that dark and foreboding Demerit Hall, of 106

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feeling again the measure and whuck of the dreadful cane therein, frankly, it left her a little sick to her stomach.

Master Hutch turned around, a twinkle in his blue eyes as he winked at Mercy. "I'm looking forward to making your acquaintance, little one. Master Shipe," he said, his laughing gaze sliding to the scowling master, leaning on his crutch just beside her. "It's been a long time since you worked Demerit Duty. We could string her up together and work her low; she'll be singing in notes she never thought her voice could manage. What do you say?"

Mercy fidgeted with her fingers as she glanced sideways at Shipe. He glared at Hutch, and then at her. "Let someone else beat her ass for a while," he snapped and swung off down the hall on his crutch.

"I'll do it."

Mercy turned around as the brothers, Deaton and Tane, came out of the dining hall. As she dropped respectfully to the floor, Deaton's dark eyes flicked over her, judged her insignificant, and he moved on to the posted list. "How many are there?"

"Twenty at least. We also need to figure out how to do the Drone. Does she go first? Do we line her up with the rest of the Lessers?"

"Have a chair set up in the hall," Tane said. "Let her sit and listen to the others paying their due. An overactive mind can be a wonderful punishment aid. I'm willing to bet she faces the cane with the utmost penitence after watching the other's limp off to bed."

"Who's assisting tonight?" Deaton asked.

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"Sub-Master Tettel," Hutch replied. "He's setting up the room as we speak."

"All right." Deaton caught the scruff of her pea-green uniform and hauled Mercy up off her knees. "Come on, you.

Time to clear that shameful mark from your person."

He let go of her tunic, and Mercy reluctantly fell into step behind him. For most of the way, they walked without talking.

It wasn't until they were winding down the steps into the bowl-shaped alcove just outside the massive double doors of the most highly feared chamber in the mountain that Deaton commented: "Sooner or later, every female in Judgment comes to this room. The floor has been anointed by thousands of tears, and the canes have all been washed in blood. It was only a matter of time for you."

Mercy chewed on her lower lip. "Yes, sir."

If his was a comment meant to comfort, it fell a far distance short of accomplishing its task.

It was fairly dark at the bottom of the alcove. The only source of light came from twin sconces on each side of the doors, which cast a yellow glow down upon the conglomerate of carvings, depictions that detailed all levels of punishment and suffering, cut into the wood. Those carvings did terrible things to the imagination. Mercy had already been here once before, but she didn't know what was worse: standing outside these doors as a New-comer, not knowing what lay in store; or having already suffered a light punishment under the Demerit rod, and knowing that today she would experience the real thing.

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Even with an unmarred bottom, smooth and soft and as pale as alabaster, a full Demerit caning—as Boyden had once explained—required that the recipient first be restrained.

Mercy was far from unmarked. Wealed and wounded, she was so tender and sore that walking was a torment and the slightest touch against her nether cheeks had her sucking at air and gritting her teeth to keep from shouting.

She stared at the carvings on the door, and at one in particular of a woman bent over a bench, her arms pulled straight out in front of her while the length of a cane burrowed into her flanks from behind. The scream that distorted the wooden girl's mouth, turned her otherwise lovely face into a grimace of absolute torment. In a moment, Mercy knew without a shadow of doubt, that would be her.

"Was it everything you hoped for?" Deaton asked, startling her from her thoughts.

"Sir?" she asked.

"Judgment," he said. "Do we meet your expectations?" The slightest ghost of a smile graced his dark features. "You're paying dearly for the experience, after all. I'd hate for you to be disappointed."

"I had no expectations," she said honestly. "Although I am sorry to have disappointed everyone else."

He quirked an eyebrow. "And how is that?"

Slowly, she admitted, "I-I have been troublesome. Master Shipe is not happy with me."

There went that ghost of a smile again. "We've all had our share of experiences in dealing with troublesome women. I'm almost certain that we'll manage you well enough. And as for 109

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Shipe," Master Deaton drawled. "Berry, were she allowed to speak with you, would probably thank you for your assistance."

Confused, Mercy asked, "What did I do?"

"A little dirt under her fingernails caused her to fail Shipe's morning inspection. To the surprise of us all, he left her bottom with a little skin still attached. So, however it is that you sweetened his mood this morning, I'm sure she is most grateful."

The echo of footsteps came down the hall, and Hutch boomed out a cheerful, "Here we are!" as he led a long line of woebegone Lessers down into the bowl of the alcove. The one directly behind him carried a straight-backed chair, which, with a wave of his hand, he directed her to set against the wall by the doors.

"Have a seat," he told Mercy as he and Deaton opened up the massive doors. "Tunic up, bare bottom squarely on the seat." He winked at her. "We'll be with you in just a moment."

Lessers of all shapes and sizes, their ranks color coordinated by the yellow, pink, or blue-grey tunics they wore, filed past her into the Demerit Hall. Mercy knew which seven were the whisperers from the library by the dark glares she got when they passed her. The doors closed behind the last woman, and then she was alone.

Rubbing her suddenly sweaty palms against her tunic skirt, she approached the chair. She turned her back to it, slowly baring herself to the waist before easing down to sit on the hard seat.

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"Oh!" she whispered and closed her eyes briefly, hissing a quick breath between her teeth. If she didn't move, it almost didn't hurt so much.

For a long time Mercy heard nothing but silence from within the closed chamber, and then the muted 'whup', as cane met bare flesh, seeped through the doors. She jumped a little and held her breath, listening. Whoever had felt that blow, she didn't cry out. She either had a bottom of steal, or much greater tolerance for pain than Mercy did.

A second meaty crack and then a third landed, with a good ten seconds of silence between each one to draw out the ordeal and allow the pain of each stroke to fully crest before the next one landed. The fourth 'whup' was echoed by a low, growled-out groan, and the fifth and last by an all-out shout.

Then silence reigned once more.

Her lungs began to hurt, and Mercy realized she'd quit breathing. She drew a shaky breath and one of the double doors opened. It was a yellow-tuniced Lesser, an Elite, who slipped between them. She quietly closed the door behind her. Limping two short steps, she clutched her bottom in both hands and burst into tears. Shoulders shaking, she bowed over and just sobbed, loud and hard, the alcove echoing her misery back up the stairs and down the mountain corridors.

It was the sharp crack as cane again met bare flesh within the Demerit hall that drew the Elite upright. Straightening her shoulders, struggling to pull herself back under control, she avoided Mercy's eyes as she walked stiffly to the stairs. One hand upon the wall to steady herself, she disappeared up the 111

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steps, but not before Mercy saw the long, dark lines the Demerit Cane had left purpling on her crimson skin.

There were twenty-three girls ahead of Mercy that paid their dues within that room. Some bore it more bravely than others, maintaining their silence throughout most of the ordeal. Only one never cried out at all, but she was made to endure four strokes of the Demerit Cane. The girl sentenced to eighteen began screaming at six, and by the end of her count she had no voice left at all. Two guards were summoned to help her back to her barracks. Because of the quantity of her count, she had been saved for last. As she was carried from the room, Master Hutch opened up the double doors for Mercy.

He smiled at her. "All right, darling." He wiggled a finger, beckoning her playfully to him. "Bring that sassy little bottom to papa."

Mercy took a deep breath, gathering up the shreds of her courage, and stood up. Ducking beneath his arm, she edged between his chest and the door and crept inside.

The Demerit Hall wasn't particularly large and it had only a bare, few articles of furniture: four straight-backed chairs tucked up against one wall, a rack that displayed dozens of canes of varying lengths and thicknesses, a roman-styled pedestal at the front of the room that supported a huge black ledger for logging the names and offenses of those sent for discipline, and, of course, there was the Rack.

The Rack looked nothing like its namesake, but was rather an upside down 'L' shaped structure built of wood and black leather. It was painfully simple in design, and utterly 112

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inescapable to anyone caught in its indifferent hold. Crowning the head of the cavernous chamber, it not only drew the eye of the soon-to-be chastised, but it left plenty of room for the Black Master on duty to dispense his correction from behind.

Unlike the alcove, this room was well lit and heated by the crackling fireplace beyond the pedestal. Though the temperature was comfortable for her, both Hutch and Deaton had removed their uniform shirts and a thin sheen of sweat glistened over their muscular chests as they each selected a cane from the varying widths displayed upon the walls.

Sub-Master Tettel stood at the dreadful Rack, rubbing his shoulder with one hand and flexing his arm. He stifled a groan as he looked at her. "Okay, last one."

He went to the pedestal, turning the page on the huge black ledger. He picked up a pen. "Name; Mercy. Drone.

Today's date. First Demerit offense—"

"Second," she corrected, her voice barely above a whisper.

Tettel glanced up at her over the top of the book. "What was that?"

"It's my second," she said. "I've been here before."

"When?" Hutch asked.

"My second week here."

Tettel went back to writing. "New-Comers don't get Demerits. What you had was a warning session. Warning sessions aren't logged in the book, and if it's not in the book, then this is your first time."

"Oh," she said softly.

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Making a practice slice through the air with his chosen cane, Deaton said, "She ought to get one or two extra for arguing."

"Nah." Hutch waved it off. "She wasn't arguing. She was being honest. She probably doesn't know that first time Demerit recipients get a lighter sentence than repeat offenders."

"Until they argue," Deaton said.

"What was it she did again?" Hutch called to Sub-Master Tettel.

"Interacted with Lessers."

"That's right." With three canes in his hand, Hutch finally made his selection and put the other two back. The one he chose was slightly thicker than the one Shipe had used earlier, and it made a heavier whir as he swung it twice through the air. He turned and looked at Mercy. "Out of curiosity, who broke the rules first?"

Her fingers fidgeting nervously in the folds of her tunic, Mercy cleared her throat. "Me, sir. They were talking to each other. I spoke to them."

He shook his head and almost sympathetically said, "That's going to cost you."

"Turn around," Deaton told her. "Lift your skirt up."

Her hands were already trembling as she obeyed and she stood there wavering slightly on her feet while they came up behind her. She felt a hand lightly touch the small of her back, turning her into the light.

Master Hutch swore. "It's like having to paint on a ruined canvas! We can't cane her. She hasn't any bottom left!"

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"What do you want to do?" Deaton suggested. "We could always postpone her punishment. Give her a few days to heal."

Hutch considered her a moment, then asked the other master, "Over the knee?"

Now it was Deaton's turn to be quiet. "All right," he said slowly. "I'll do over the knee."

"Thirty a piece," Hutch said, and Mercy felt her heart falter. "Ten to bottom, twenty to thighs. After all, we don't want to be too merciful."

"Deal. Who goes first?"

The hand left the small of her back, and Mercy fought the urge to turn around so she could see what they were doing.