King's man and thief

CHAPTER TEN

Castle Seacliff had been designed with escape from siege in mind. The space below the castle was riddled with tunnels and little rooms where the royal family could be hidden-and where their enemies could be imprisoned. As he descended into one of these dungeons, Bhakir's refrain was simple: At least the little bastard has no magic.

That thought was the only thing that comforted him after Castyll's outrageous performance earlier in the day. It had looked like an accident, and admittedly Castyll couldn't have counted that the wind would be so anxious to snatch up a royal counselor's speech. But it was just too convenient. Bhakir suspected that if the warm summer zephyr hadn't been so obliging, the boy would have ignored the speech and done exactly what he had ended up doing. He'd have come up with some excuse.

Castyll knew he was a prisoner, or at least suspected as much. Whatever else Shahil might have been, the late king of Mhar had not been stupid. Nor was his son, though Bhakir had hoped that simply because of his youth Castyll might be more pliable.

But today he had seen calculation in the boy's actions. He was starting to push, to test the limits, and soon he would become too hard to control.

Puffing with even the simple exertion of walking downstairs, Bhakir narrowed his eyes. But damn it, he still needed Castyll. The people's reaction to the king's speech today proved that. He'd just have to step up security around the youth, that was all there was to it. After Love's Blesser, ugly little thing, had had her way with him, it would be Castyll whom Bhakir would be visiting now, as well as Jemma. Enough of coddling the boy. Time to put him in the dungeon as the prisoner he was.

"Peace with Byrn," he muttered. "Pieces of Byrn, is more like it." The innocent-sounding speech had set Bhakir back several days. He'd have to contrive another official occasion, where Castyll could actually deliver the prepared speech.

Bhakir reached the foot of the stairs and paused to lean up against the cold stone wall, catching his breath. A soft moaning, emanating from the torture room, was sweet to Bhakir's ears. The two guards stationed outside the cell shrewdly averted their eyes from the sight of their master appearing less than perfect. When his breathing had slowed, Bhakir spoke to them.

"Any progress?" he asked.

They snapped to attention. "We believe so, sir. She broke down and begged for us to stop for the first time yesterday. You can hear her now."

"Indeed I do. That is good news. But has she agreed to cooperate?"

"No sir."

"Ah, well, that is unfortunate, but I'm sure it can be remedied. I've saved something special for her."

It had been ten days since he had first ordered her imprisoned; six days since the torture had begun. They had tried almost everything they could think of that would not injure her hands or her speech. Such delicacy in selection ruled out some of Bhakir's favorite tortures, such as the strappado. Hoisting Jemma up by her hands, bound behind her back, and then letting her drop would dislocate her shoulders, thus making arm movements difficult. And the water torture was perforce eliminated as an option as well. Forcing her to swallow a long length of rag and then yanking it back up-well, that could seriously injure her throat.

He nodded to the guards, and they opened the door. Bhakir swept inside. Over at the table, the torturer was busily cleaning bits of the old woman's flesh out of the clogged cat-o'-nine-tails. Jemma, barely recognizable, lay on the floor. She was bound hand and foot and was curled up in a tight ball, whimpering. Welts covered almost every inch of her body. If Bhakir hadn't known better, he'd have thought that the torturer had sliced her up with a knife.

The torturer rose immediately. Grandly, Bhakir waved him back, indicating he should finish his task. He strode over to the weeping heap that had once been a proud woman and kicked her soundly at the base of her spine.

Jemma screamed and flailed. Bhakir waited calmly for her cries to subside, then said, "All you need to do is cooperate. It's not that much to ask."

An incoherent mumbling was his response. He sighed. 'This isn't working."

The torturer, a bulky man stripped to the waist, nodded. Sweat from his exertions gleamed on his torso. "I only hope my lord finds no fault with the methods."

"Good heavens, you've more than proved yourself on past occasions, Garith," Bhakir hastened to reassure him. "You're limited in this one, unfortunately. I can't give you the free rein to which you are accustomed. No, we just have to think of something else."

"How about a variation of pressing?" volunteered Garith, as they both stood gazing at the whimpering, bloody woman. Pressing was a particularly effective form of coercion. Victims were tied faceup and arched upwards, and one by one, stones were placed on their torso, eventually crushing them. "She has muttered about her joints. Anything I've done to them has produced very positive results. It would be very painful, but not necessarily destructive."

Bhakir nodded slowly. "I see what you mean. It sounds like a good suggestion. Here, let me assist you."

Jemma lifted her head as they approached, sensing a progression in her torment, and cried out, "Nay, my lords, have mercy! I am an old woman! Please!"

"Jemma," said Bhakir in a tired, firm voice, as if he were speaking to an errant child, "I have told you what you need to do if you wish to stop this. I'd much rather you cooperate. Garith's talents are very costly." The two men exchanged a chuckle.

The old Healer closed her eyes, sinking into herself. She fell silent.

Bhakir sighed. "As you wish, old woman." Garith jerked her into an upright seated position. She hissed through her teeth as the caked-over welts began to bleed anew, and shrieked as they pushed her bound ankles into her crotch. Working swiftly, Garith tied a short length of rope between ankles and wrists, so that her feet would not slip away from her body.

Wordlessly, the two men began putting stones on the woman's thin legs, forcing them down to the floor. At this, Jemma screamed aloud, a terrible, rasping cry of pure agony. The men exchanged hopeful glances and continued applying stones. Mercilessly, Jemma's thighs pressed toward the floor, tearing the ligaments that bound them to her hips and fanning the fire of her inflamed joints. She wailed constantly, seeming not even to draw breath.

"Will you do what I ask?" demanded Bhakir.

She opened her eyes. For a second, it was as though she didn't see him. "I Heal," was all she said.

Bhakir growled in angry frustration. Was the whole world trying to thwart him today? First Castyll, with his impromptu speeches and lies, and now this tiny, wasted woman with a body seemingly too frail to house her rebellious spirit. Unable to contain himself, he placed one booted foot on her knee and stamped down.

Her agony was rewarding. He turned to Garith. "The spider," he said shortly.

Garith frowned. "The injuries that causes are very severe," he reminded his lord. "She might not survive them. I suggest sending her back to her cell, letting her stiffen up in solitary confinement, and then resuming. That often works better than straight torture. Something about having the time to think clearheaded about what's to come often breaks them."

He spoke calmly, with the authority of a man who knew what he was talking about. Bhakir was certain he did.

"But I am running out of time," he replied. "I need her help soon. The boy will before long be of no use, and unless I have something special-" he broke off. He had the utmost confidence in Garith's trustworthiness. The two men had worked together in this capacity for years, in secret, and Garith had never yet betrayed him. But what Bhakir was planning was of great import, and he wished to trust no one, not even his torturer, with all of the facts.

"I am running out of time," he repeated. "She must cooperate soon or she is of no use to me." Garith bowed. "You are my lord and commander, and I am sworn to obey you. But I think we might kill her."

"I'm willing to take the risk," snapped Bhakir. "Something about this particular method seems to break women swiftly."

"That is true enough," conceeded Garith. "Many who can withstand abuse to other parts of the body cannot deal with targeted attacks on their sex."

Bhakir suddenly had a dreadful mental picture of his maleness trapped within a cold, sharptoothed device, and he suppressed a shudder. He knew that he would talk in such a situation. He could only hope that Jemma would, too.

"Proceed," he said, banishing the mental image.

"As you will, my lord." Reluctantly, the torturer went to the stone wall and yanked the coverings off a previously unrevealed instrument. It appeared simple enough; nothing more than a series of bars, eight in all, affixed vertically to the wall with claws running along their lengths. Bhakir reached and yanked Jemma to her feet. She crumpled, her broken legs unable to support her, and he held her with one strong arm about her waist. With the other, he seized a clump of gray hair and yanked her head back, forcing her gaze upon the metal bars.

"This is the spider," he hissed in her ear. "This won't hurt your hands or your tongue, Healer. But this is specially designed for your sex. We'll hoist you and drag you along those eight claws. You are an old woman, but you are a woman still, and though your breasts have long since dried, I would think you'd still like to keep them intact."

Jemma did not respond. Bhakir tasted despair. Suppose the torture had unhinged her mind? He might as well toss her in the ocean right now, for all the good she would do him. He swore violently and began to half drag, half carry the injured old woman toward the torture instrument.

Garith waited, and together they lifted her, brought her unresisting, aged body up, placed her in the correct position. Cold metal came into contact with warm flesh.

Suddenly the limp body sprang to life. Jemma began to writhe and scream. "Mercy, lord! Mercy!" Bhakir, caught up in his anger, almost missed the opportunity he had been waiting for. It was Garith who paused and said, "Milord, I haven't seen her like this. Ask her again."

Startled, Bhakir paused. Jemma's body was inches away from mutilation. "You wish me to stop?" Incoherent with fear and pain, Jemma only nodded.

"Will you do as I ask? Will you help me?"

Her head lolled back, resembling a heavy blossom on a delicate stalk. Her eyes fixed on his. "One last time," she breathed, "I beg you, don't ask this of me."

Irritation roiled in Bhakir's brain, and he lifted her toward the spider again. "I care not if your withered old teats are shredded. Do you?"

She twisted in his grasp. "No, lord, no! I-gods save me! — I will do what you want, only spare me this!"

At once Garith took over, as professional now in his compassion as he was in his torture. He swung the broken, naked body into his arms and carried her gently to a corner, where he wrapped her in blankets that were there for just such an occasion.

"There, you see, Jemma?" he said gently, using her name for the first time. "All you had to do was cooperate." He glanced over at the counselor. "Tell the guards to bring hot, nourishing food, wine, and clothes suitable for her," he told Bhakir. "Give me a few hours to tend her hurts and she will do as you ask."

Bhakir wasn't so sure. He stalked over to the Healer and stared down at her. Her eyes were squeezed shut, and tears escaped from beneath her closed lids. They were not the strained sobs of a panicked, pain-filled prisoner. These were quiet tears, tears that mourned, not protested.

"The spider waits, if you change your mind," he told her.

She nodded, her eyes still closed. "Aye, lord, I know. I will not." Her voice was dead, empty, devoid of emotion. Her tongue crept out to lick dry lips. At the gesture, Garith was quick to ladle some water into her mouth. She gulped thirstily, then continued. "Listen

… you must get me… these materials."

Bhakir could barely restrain himself. For the first time, he could truly see his plan coming together. He'd been able to maneuver here and there, such as working on Zhael's behalf and negotiating the treaty with Captain Cutter; and, of course, keeping a sharp eye and heavy hand on the troublesome king. But those were each separate pieces of a vast, complicated puzzle. Now, finally, Jemma was going to give him the tool to hamstring his enemies and emerge triumphant.

Garith had asked for a Healer, but Bhakir had deemed it too great a risk. The torturer would have to content himself with what healing he himself knew. Still, when Bhakir returned a few hours later bearing all the strange and mysterious items Jemma had requested, he was surprised at the change in the old woman.

She had been transferred to another, more comfortable cell, though this one was still subject to the dampness and vermin that were common to all the prison cells. But at least there was a small brazier now to cut the cold, and a bed that was adequate if not much more. Jemma was dressed and her wounds tended. She sat erect on the bed, her useless lower extremities covered with the blankets, and regarded Bhakir steadily as the guard opened the door to let him enter. The counselor realized with a start that if he had set out to break Jemma's spirit, he had failed. It was of no matter, he told himself; as long as she was willing to cooperate, she could keep her precious dignity.

"I have the items you requested," he said without preamble, indicating the bag he carried. "You will have to be my assistant," she said with equal coolness. "Your torturer left me my hands and voice, but neither you nor he remembered that I must be able to walk to cast a circle."

Bhakir broke out in a cold sweat. Jemma was about to embark on a ritual that, he of all people know, called upon some of the darkest, most evil powers in existence. He had planned to reap the fruits of her labor, not assist her-and thus perhaps be subjected to danger. He licked thick lips with a moist tongue.

"I will assist where I can, but this is your ritual, Blesser."

Now she cringed, as if with his words he had hurt her as badly as Garith had with his instruments. "Do not call me by that title," she said. "By what I am about to do I am proving myself no Blesser- nor a Healer. I am Jemma. That was the name given me, and that is all I have left now. As for the limits of your assistance," and fire seemed to return to her, "it would be meet and right for you to suffer for the evil thing you demand. But I accept that this is my burden, my debt to the gods for the blasphemy I have agreed to perform."

Bhakir was, for once, at a loss for words. Instead, he plopped the bag on the straw and began emptying it. Though he was confused by the strange assortment Jemma had instructed he obtain, he had managed to get, through a variety of means, every item on her list. A map of Byrn. A sharp knife. A stoppered jug full of milk. A handful of wheat. A small, but fresh, cut of raw meat. A small ceramic bowl. A sack of ground bone powder. And an intimidating amount of herbs and other bizarre items: hemlock, nightshade, bat's blood, sheep's fat, monk's hood, lily of the valley, soot, mugwort. A mortar and pestle, presumably for grinding the ingredients.

Jemma watched him in silence. At last she spoke. "You are mad," she said in a conversational tone, "to think the gods will let you curse an entire country of innocents."

Bhakir spared her a sharp glance. "I would not advise trying to undercut your efforts in this curse," he replied. "My mercy will depend on how well I am satisfied with what you produce." "Then the gods save us all," she said softly. "Clear a space in the center of the floor. Place all the items inside it, and then set me down there."

He did as she instructed, pushing the scattered straw to the sides of the room, then moving the strange items to the center. Even this little exertion was difficult for the obese man, and he was panting by the time he lumbered over to pick up Jemma. Fortunately, she was as light as a pile of twigs. Gently he set her down, then stood back. Sweat gleamed on his high forehead.

'Take the bowl and place some hot coals from the brazier inside it, along with a little straw to keep the flame alive." He obeyed, handing her the warm container. Carefully she set it aside, then reached for the herbs and other items. One by one they went into the pestle. She lifted her head. He stood ready to jump to her next command, excited by the fact that victory was so close at hand.

"Take the bone powder and make a circle, enclosing us both within."

He laughed at that. "I will make the circle, Healer, but I will seal it from the outside." Her eyes narrowed. "What a coward you are, Bhakir."

"Ah, but a victorious coward, thanks to your efforts on my behalf." This close, he had no desire to be angry with the woman. She was, after all, doing his bidding, and if she tossed a few barbed comments his way, what did it hurt him?

"When Lady Death's spirit wolves come for you, I hope they tear your fat body to pieces." The hate in her voice gave him pause, but only for an instant. Holding the bag open with one hand, he spread the bone powder with the other, walking in a circle as Jemma worked to combine all her ingredients into a thick, greasy paste. He closed the circle, then sat on the bed, safely away, watching. Bhakir heard a skittering sound beneath him-the rats that so often found their way into the cells. Reconsidering his position, he drew both feet up onto the bed.

Jemma muttered to herself as she prepared the ointment, moving her long, thin fingers in complex patterns over the bowl. Then, using the two fingers of her right hand, she scooped out a small amount. Still chanting softly, she rubbed the ointment into the skin behind her ears, along her throat, under her arms and, grimacing, in the bends of her broken knees and useless feet. For several long moments she sat, her eyes closed, breathing slowly.

Bhakir became impatient. He was just about to speak when her eyes flew open. He gasped, instinctively drawing back.

The eyes that looked out of Jemma's face were not hers. They were completely black, with no trace of pupil or iris or white left. And they were as cold and unfeeling as that of a snake, or a rat. Her body began to convulse, and gibberish spilled out of her mouth.

Dear gods, Bhakir thought, she's poisoned herself. He watched, wondering what in the Nightlands he would do if this plan didn't work, when suddenly she seemed to recover herself.

Quickly, precisely, Jemma — or the thing that had assumed her body, Bhakir didn't know which- began to lay out the rest of the items. She spread out the map of Byrn, anchoring it with the containers of milk, wheat, water, and meat at each of the four corners.

Out of the corner of his eye, Bhakir caught movement in a dark corner of the room. His nerves strained taut, he whipped his head around, fearful that some sort of Nightlands Demon had been conjured by the Healer and now waited to pounce. But it was only a rat, scuttling about on some rodent business. Bhakir closed his eyes in relief, aware that his pulse was racing. He again turned his attention to Jemma.

"May the purity of water become as acid; may thirst in Byrn never be quenched; what was used to cleanse, now pollutes."

As he watched, fascinated, Bhakir saw the clear water suddenly begin to cloud, as if Jemma had poured in ink from an unseen vessel. A shudder racked him. By the gods, it was happening! "May the wholesomeness of meat become as filth; may hunger in Byrn never be sated; what was used to nourish, now poisons."

She impaled the knife to its hilt in the fresh meat. The meat began to rot before Bhakir's eyes. Its stench floated out of the circle and threatened to make him vomit.

"May the goodness of the crops be as straw; may the fields be as barren as an old woman's womb; what was used to earn riches for the kingdom, now breaks its spirit."

As had the water and the meat, the wheat began to spoil. It withered as if it had been suspended over hot coals, its berries blackened and useless. Bhakir could barely contain himself. "May the breasts of the women of Byrn become as old bones; may the children perish, may the milk of human kindness sour; what was used to nurture a people, now betrays."

The jug of milk began to froth. Sour chunks floated to the surface as the milk spoiled from the power of Jemma's work. Now the old woman reached and gathered up the map, crumpling it in her hands.

'The land is cursed. The people are cursed. Their own natures shall rise up against them; their own land shall betray them. When this map has been destroyed, so shall the land it stands for be destroyed."

She moved to drop the crumpled parchment into the small, coal-filled bowl. Before she could do so, something small and black scuttled into the sacred circle, leaping gracefully over the lines of ground bone and landing squarely where it clearly wished to be-beside the putrid lump of rotting meat, upon which it began to feast.

Jemma drew back, then lashed out at the intrusive creature. Her hand sent it sprawling, knocking over the milk and water and scattering the kernels of wheat. Undaunted, it hissed at her and continued to feed.

Suddenly Jemma began to laugh — a robust, deep, rumbling sound that had no business issuing from the slender throat of an old woman. "So be it then!" she cried, and seized the rat. It squirmed and twisted in her grasp but she did not release it. Frantic, it bit her fingers; she ignored the bright blood that began to drip. Now the creature wanted nothing to do with the fouled meat and grains, but mercilessly Jemma crammed its writhing body into each item. "Be thou the vehicle!"

Suddenly the rat froze, its four little limbs and tail sticking straight out as if galvanized. Almost scornfully, Jemma released it, and it fell heavily onto the crumpled map of Byrn.

Bhakir watched, horrified. The curse had been interrupted by a foolish rat! His plans, his dreams… all for nothing. Clearly the rite had driven the old woman mad. He half rose, an angry protest on his lips, when what happened next ripped all thought of protest from him.

The rat began to grow.

As if inflated, it grew larger, until it was nearly the size of a cat, a small dog. Its coat moved like waving grain in a windswept field, moved as if it was crawling with an unholy life of its own. The color of the fur deepened from dark, dirty gray to an inky black. Its eyes brightened, as if suddenly filled with a glorious good health. It ceased struggling and sat up on its back legs. Bhakir was reminded of the one glimpse he had ever gotten of the Ghil, the dreadful, almost humanly intelligent creatures that were the plague of the northern parts of Byrn, as the unnaturally sized rat looked about, its ears flicking, its gaze observing.

Jemma gasped, then sagged, as if all the energy housed within her fragile frame had bled from her into the filthy beast. When she spoke, her voice was once again that of an old, tired woman. "It is done. You have your curse. May you reap nothing but ill from it."

Bhakir stared, enthralled, his small, piggish gaze never leaving the rat, which now began to run the circumference of the circle. "But… the rat?"

"It has taken the curse into itself, and will spread it to all those it comes into contact with," explained Jemma heavily. She reached up a hand to brush her gray hair out of her face, and that hand trembled as if palsied. "It will take good and turn it to evil. It will take what is wholesome and turn it to poison." She watched the evil creature skittering about, its nose twitching. It reached out one clawed paw and tapped at the ground bone, then jumped back as if stung. Cluttering angrily, it resumed its search for an exit.

Jemma began to rock back and forth, seemingly ignoring the agony that ripped through her broken lower body. "What was pleasure is pain: and bringing pain is pleasure." She closed her eyes and, incredibly, a smile spread across her face.

"Jemma," said Bhakir sharply, his eyes flicking from the rat to her. There was no response. "Jemma!"

She began to croon, and Bhakir recognized it as a child's lullaby. He could not rely on her further for aid.

That was just as well. He had what he wanted. He rose, and walked over to the rat. It fixed him with its beady eyes for an instant, then returned to its ceaseless pace.

Good. It was contained, for the moment, at least. Bhakir left, taking care that the guard locked the door securely behind him. He would need to acquire a special box to contain the rat; it wouldn't do for the curse that had cost him so much to escape. Jemma had used a sacred circle to contain the creature. Bhakir's mind was already working as he hastened up the stone staircase as fast as his enormous bulk would permit.

Behind him, in the locked door, Jemma did not notice his departure. She sat and rocked, singing softly to herself. But part of her still clung to sanity, and knew that there was only one way to escape this dark path upon which she had set her feet. She spared a glance toward the door, but did not see the guard looking in on her. Good. She said a silent prayer to Health, the cheerful, benevolent goddess whom she had just betrayed, and thanked the deity for causing Bhakir to make his exit so quickly. He would be pleased with what she had done. He would want her to do it again; use her goddess-given gifts to hurt and destroy other innocents somewhere else. But in his haste, he had overlooked one important thing-within the confines of the sacred circle, he had left Jemma with access to a knife.

Alone with the rat that bore the dark burden of a curse intended for an entire country, Jemma reached and gripped the dagger. Slowly, so as not to attract the beast's attention, she raised the dagger. She could do it; could kill the foul thing now, before it ever got to Byrn.

But as she moved, it stopped its movements. It sat up on its hind legs and fixed her with a steady, red gaze. It knew. Dear gods, it knew.

Crying out, she lunged for it, but the creature was quicker. Again she tried, and again it danced just out of reach. With her ruined legs, she would never be able to move fast enough to reach it, and it knew it. Safely out of reach, it seemed to taunt her.

She could not undo the damage she had done, but she could prevent further grief. It would work. Even if the guard saw what she had done, neither he nor anyone else would be able to violate the circle to stop her as long as she still lived. Still humming insanely, she now positioned the knife just below her ribs, its sharp point aimed for her heart. It would be swift. Time enough, then, for her to fall forward and press the knife deep inside.

Time enough for one old woman to die.

Many miles away, separated by land and by water, Vervain bolted wide awake. The tears were wet on her face, and her heart beat a rapid tattoo not of terror, but of apprehension. "It has begun," whispered Vervain to the dark silence of her room.