The Three Lands Omnibus (2011 Edition) (115 page)

"It is a technique that is not dependent on my godly powers; all of my thieves are taught it. I could teach it to you."
Quentin-Andrew narrowed his eyes against the glare of the moonshine. "In exchange for what promise?" he asked.
The Jackal shook his head. "In exchange for no promise. It would be an answer to the question you failed to ask." He added more softly, "When a darkness lies within a man, sometimes the only way to let light shine within him is to break open that man's spirit. Once the spirit is broken, you can then bring light into the man and mend what you have broken. Those are the two skills I teach to my thieves: how to break a man's spirit with words only, and how to mend that spirit with more words. Once you have practiced the second skill, you will understand why you have been forced to undergo the torture that you live in, the torture so deep that you have shielded yourself from its effects." The Jackal gestured toward the ledge of the unshuttered window. "Come sit with me; I will explain to you this form of questioning."
Quentin-Andrew walked forward, squinting his eyes against the light that the Jackal was walking through. He was thinking that this visit was twice worth the trouble he had taken to come here. Yet even as he sat at the Jackal's side and listened with obedient attention to what he was being told, he felt the contempt inside him grow to a peak.
Was the Jackal really fool enough to think that Quentin-Andrew would ever use the second part of what he was being taught?
 
CHAPTER THREE
"The subcommander wishes to know whether you have placed him on the table yet."
The voice drifted through the darkness, a darkness that had become more pronounced as the hours passed. Quentin-Andrew's spirit was focussed upon the sensations in his wrists and in his chest. He barely heard the words spoken at the door by the young orderly.
Randal's voice was cool in reply. "Tell the subcommander that if he is dissatisfied with my skills, he is welcome to take over the work himself."
The orderly was persistent. "The subcommander says that a full day ought to be enough time in which to extract the information. He says that the Northern Army may attack at any moment."
"Bern," said Randal with frigid politeness, "who am I questioning?"
During the pause that followed, Quentin-Andrew tried to twist his body into a new position and immediately regretted the action. Only by biting his lip was he able to prevent sound from being emitted.
"The Lieutenant," said the orderly finally. "The chief torturer of the Northern Army."
"And how long, Bern, do you think it takes to break a man like that?"
This time there was no reply. Quentin-Andrew felt moisture trail down his arms, and inwardly cursed Randal for his skill. It had taken Quentin-Andrew only an hour to discover why Randal used leather straps for his bindings: as the wrists grew wet, the moisture constricted the leather, causing the wrists to sweat and bleed all the more. It was a subtle touch, a refined touch, and Quentin-Andrew had grown to appreciate that Randal was adept at such niceties.
The door to the cell was closing. Quentin-Andrew waited until he heard the click of the latch falling before he let out his breath, along with the sound that had been suppressed inside. Nearby, one of Randal's assistants sighed in his sleep. It was past midnight now, and all four of the inhabitants of this room were weary from the proceedings.
Randal's hand touched the back of Quentin-Andrew's head, and a moment later the cloth that had bound Quentin-Andrew's eyes for the past day fell free. Knowing as he did the stages of questioning, Quentin-Andrew did not take this as a good sign.
"Gasps," said Randal abruptly, as though he had guessed Quentin-Andrew's thoughts. "Gasps, and then moans, followed by tears, sobs, curses, screams, pleas for the questioning to stop, more screams, protests that one doesn't know the information – and then the breaking." He leaned against the dungeon wall that was warm from the leaping fire nearby and added reflectively, "The protests were a mistake, of course. You know as well as I do that if a prisoner is going to claim he doesn't know the information, he needs to do so at the beginning of the questioning, while he can still craft a skillful lie. Waiting until the end never works."
Randal's eyes were blood-veined with sleeplessness, but he did not waver his gaze from his prisoner's face. Quentin-Andrew began to turn away his face, a movement which ended abruptly as the back of Randal's hand collided with his cheek. This time, the sound that Quentin-Andrew made caused Randal's other assistant to murmur in his sleep; then the cell fell into silence once more. Quentin-Andrew had heard the clatter earlier when the dungeon was emptied of its last inhabitants. He suspected that this had been done at Randal's request.
Acting as though the slap had not taken place, Randal said mildly, "But of course we can't allow anyone to know how easy it is to break the mighty Lieutenant. It would be harmful for the reputation of all of us in this profession if it were publicized how quickly men such as us can be broken. Though I must admit that you are a special case, Lieutenant. I don't believe that, in all the years I've been working at this trade, I've ever met a soldier who is as sensitive to pain as you are."
Quentin-Andrew had been waiting for these words for a day and a night – had been waiting for them, indeed, for many years. The anticipation of this moment did not seem to help. Quentin-Andrew closed his eyes against his torturer's look of frank pity. A moment later the blow of Randal's hand against his other cheek persuaded him that this was a poor decision. He jerked his eyes open and looked over at Randal, who was caressing in his left hand the instrument he had been using when they were interrupted.
"What I don't understand," Randal continued in a conversational manner, "is why you are holding out. You know what the end will be as well as I do, Lieutenant; you know that a man with your limitations is destined to break. So why, I have been asking myself, are you prolonging the pain?"
Quentin-Andrew had been asking himself that as well. For the first time in many hours, he dragged his spirit past the torment to a full awareness of Randal, sweat-soaked like Quentin-Andrew. Serious-faced now, his gaze one of painful concentration, the young man laid his instrument carefully aside on the disused table and said, "Is it out of loyalty to the Commander? But that would be foolish; you know that the Commander is not the sort of man who would have so much as spoken to you in peacetime. He finds you useful these days and seeks to protect you and keep your allegiance for that reason, but as for feeling affection for you – no, you are not that foolish." His statement was flat; he was reading what he wished to know in Quentin-Andrew's expression.
"Perhaps," Randal said slowly, "you are hoping that, if you show honor in this cell, the gods will forgive you for all that you have done over the years. But truly, Lieutenant, I cannot imagine that your wits have been destroyed to that degree. You know what fate awaits men like us – and you know that, if there was ever a moment when the gods could have forgiven you, it was lost eight years ago."
Quentin-Andrew, keeping his gaze carefully fixed on his torturer's blood-stained hands, thought to himself that Randal could not know the full truth of what he said. He could not know, though everyone in the Three Lands knew what the Lieutenant had done eight years before in the dungeon of the Chara's palace.
The only outward price which Quentin-Andrew had paid for that night was the loss of his patrol unit, since the Commander had quickly assessed the mood of Quentin-Andrew's men when all eleven of them had arrived at the Commander's quarters afterwards and stood in grim silence. Quentin-Andrew's second-in-command had been elevated to patrol lieutenant; Quentin-Andrew had been released from his patrol duties to take on work of greater importance to the Northern Army, as the Commander had tactfully expressed it.
That much the world knew. The world also knew the price that the Commander had paid for that night: the loss of his remaining supporters in Koretia, and the determination of the Koretians and Daxions from that night forward to fight the Commander to their deaths. Without that night, the Commander might have taken Koretia with little struggle. After that night, the Commander had been faced with the choice of denying his involvement in what had happened or subduing the southern peninsula by ruthless force.
To the Commander's credit, he had never denied what he had done. By contrast, Quentin-Andrew had added to his iniquity by suppressing one critical piece of information about that night. Not even the Commander knew how that night had ended; not even the Commander knew of the terrible, unforgivable act that had served as an immutable seal to the deeds of Quentin-Andrew's life.
Only Quentin-Andrew knew of that act and its consequences, and his knowledge of what he had done had cut into his spirit every day for the past eight years, like the precise stabs of a thigh-dagger. But Randal could not know that.
Indeed, Randal was now saying, "Oh, but the ways of the gods are mysterious. If I were to tell you that I knew their judgment upon you, you would laugh in my face. Perhaps I am wrong; perhaps the Jackal will extend his hand to you—"
The soft breathing of Randal's assistants was the only sound in the cell. Quentin-Andrew felt Randal's hand lift his chin. His eyes met Randal's.
"That is why you are holding out, isn't it, Lieutenant?" the torturer said softly. "You are trying to postpone that moment. You imagine that what you experience here will be less than what awaits you there. But Lieutenant . . ." His voice grew softer still. "You have forgotten one important fact. You need not accept the fire."
So there, like a blade hidden in the palm of a hand, was the disclosure of the final temptation Quentin-Andrew had been awaiting – the temptation he had been awaiting all his life. There seemed no reason that he should hold out against that temptation.
"We owe the gods nothing," Randal said with quiet intensity. "
Nothing.
They made us what we are and abandoned us. They deserve nothing from us, and no gifts they might grant us will make up for what they have done to us. Don't fool yourself into thinking otherwise."
And Quentin-Andrew knew that, whatever lies his torturer might have told during their time together, Randal was now speaking nothing more than the simple truth.
The winter winds of Emor were mild in comparison to those found in the mountains of the northern dominions or on the frozen wastes of the mainland, but Quentin-Andrew, born at the southern edge of Emor, had never adjusted to the colder climes of the world. For that reason, he was grateful to find that this first evening back in the camp of the Northern Army would not be spent in the chill activity of patrolling the perimeter of the camp. Instead, he was sitting in relative warmth in the smallest of the camp's huts.
The man seated across from him, who had so little concern for the weather that he had tossed his cloak back from his shoulders, was taking an unusual amount of time to formulate his thoughts. When he finally raised his forest green eyes to look at Quentin-Andrew, his voice was quiet. "I'm glad to see you looking so well after your long convalescence, Lieutenant. Your . . . injuries were so great that I was not sure that you would recover. And without your help, I had grave worries as to the future of the Northern Army."
One thing that could be said about the Commander of the Northern Army, Quentin-Andrew thought, was that he always meant what he said. He might omit information; he had certainly skipped lightly over his decision to isolate the Lieutenant while he was recovering from his injuries. This had been done for no special reason – no reason, that is, except that Quentin-Andrew had been in great pain during that time. Due to the isolation, only the Commander and the tight-lipped physician in attendance had learned how the Northern Army's torturer reacted to pain.
Yet if the Commander said that Quentin-Andrew's absence had endangered the Northern Army, he meant it. Another soldier might have reacted to this praise by stammering thanks or hotly denying the honor. Quentin-Andrew simply nodded silently.
The Commander, having passed over the most delicate part of his speech, grew more brisk in voice as he turned to accept a cup of wine from his orderly. "Now that you're better, I'd be interested in hearing in more detail the exact circumstances of the attack."
"There is little to tell, sir," Quentin-Andrew replied, but waited until the orderly had handed him his wine and left. Then he said, "I sighted an intruder, and he attacked me."
The Commander gave a half-smile. "A simple tale. You don't mention that you defended yourself while an arrow was sticking out of your leg and after the attacker had slashed down at your chest with his sword. It is the arrow that interests me. It's not the typical weapon of an Emorian soldier. Was he a Daxion?"
"You saw his corpse."
"I saw that he was light-skinned and wearing an Emorian uniform. There was nothing to indicate he might have come from the south?"
"Nothing, sir. He cursed me in Emorian when I killed him, if that's of any help."
"It's a relief, at any rate." The Commander leaned back in his chair, raising his cup to his lips. The lamplight cast shadows upon the battle-scars on his hand. "I need not tell you, Lieutenant, that it will be hard enough to defeat Emor in this war without worrying about additional allies. If Daxis becomes alarmed at our progress and joins with Emor . . . Well, we are still a comparatively small force in comparison with the Chara's. Fortunately, Daxis seems oblivious at this point to the possible consequences of our conquest of Emor. The gods who remain silent know that I have no quarrel with the Daxions, but if we should ever decide to cross the border into Koretia . . ." He left the sentence unfinished and set his cup down onto the documents that littered the table in front of him. "So he was not a Daxion soldier. Then why the arrows and bow? Those are not the weapons of a spy."
"No, sir. They are the weapons of an assassin."
The Commander's eyes, relaxed until now, grew suddenly sharp. In typical fashion, he waited only a breath's span before saying in a matter-of-fact manner, "For me?"
"I don't think so, sir. You were in battle that evening, as the Emorians knew." He paused before adding, "When I first marked him, the soldier was headed in the direction of my unit's hut."