The monk watched him go, then twisted the strap hard enough to make Zhorzhet choke, her eyes widening as he cut off her air.
“Up you get, you murderous bitch,” he’d hissed in her ear, his mouth so close she felt his hot breath. “There’s a hot corner of hell for such as you, and you might’s well start the trip there now.”
She’d twisted, choking, fighting involuntarily for air as he strangled her, and he’d pulled her to her feet by the strap, then dragged her down the steep carriage steps and into the prison. At least he’d been forced to let her breathe along the way, but that hadn’t been a kindness. Indeed, the kindest thing he could have done would have been to strangle her to death, and she knew it. But he hadn’t. He’d only dragged her along endless corridors until, finally, he’d turned her over to another interrogator—a thick-shouldered, hulking giant of a man with blunt, hard features and merciless eyes.
“I’ll take her, Brother Zherom,” he’d said, and his voice had seemed to come from some underground cavern. It wasn’t all that deep, but it was deadly cold, the voice of a man who no longer possessed any human emotions, and its emptiness was far more terrifying than any leering cruelty could have been.
“And welcome to her,” Brother Zherom had said, passing over the strap. Then he’d reached out, capturing Zhorzhet’s face between the thumb and fingers of his right hand, forcing her head around to face him, and he’d smiled.
“Don’t reckon I’ll be seeing you again … before the Punishment,” he’d told her. “Might, though. There’s more’n one way t’ question a heretic bitch.” He’d leaned forward and licked her forehead, slowly and gloatingly, then straightened. “Won’t be so pretty by the time you hit the fire.”
She’d only stared at him mutely, and he’d laughed, then tossed her head aside, turned, and walked away.
And then she’d been taken to her cell, but her new captor had paused at the door.
“You’re one of the priority prisoners,” he’d told her. “Understand you’ve already tried to kill yourself once.” He’d shaken his head and spat contemptuously on the stone floor. “Don’t know what your rush is. You’ll see Shan-wei soon enough! But we can’t have you trying again, and I’ve seen people hang themselves with things you’d never’ve thought they could.” He’d smiled coldly. “Don’t think you’ll be doing that, though.”
And then he’d stripped her naked, there in the cell doorway, before he’d removed her manacles and flung her into it, and she’d been wrong about his absence of emotion. There’d been more than enough leering cruelty in his eyes—in his groping hands—as he reduced her to fragile, naked vulnerability, and she’d never believed for a moment it was only to keep her from hanging herself with the hem of her chemise.
Then he’d laughed once, the door had crashed shut behind her, and he’d walked away, leaving her to the cold and the fear … and the despair.
* * *
“You sent for me, My Lord?”
Father Bahzwail Hahpyr crossed the office quickly and bent to kiss the ruby-set ring Bishop Inquisitor Bahltahzyr Vekko extended across his desk.
“Yes, I did. Be seated. I think you’ll be here a while.”
“Of course, My Lord.”
Hahpyr settled into his usual chair, his expression attentive. He and the bishop inquisitor were old colleagues, although he was little more than half Vekko’s age. He was broad-shouldered, with dark hair and eyes, and a thin purse-like slit of a mouth, whereas Vekko was in his late seventies, with a frail, ascetic appearance. The white-haired, gray-eyed prelate looked like everyone’s favorite grandfather with his full, snow-white beard. Until one looked deeply into those eyes of his and saw the curious … flatness lurking just below their surface like an opaque wall.
Bahltahzyr Vekko had been one of Zhaspahr Clyntahn’s closest supporters for decades. Indeed, he’d been Clyntahn’s mentor back in the Grand Inquisitor’s seminary days. The student had long since outpaced the master, of course, yet he remained one of Clyntahn’s closest confidants, and he’d played a major role in shaping the Grand Inquisitor’s vision of Mother Church’s future. In his more honest moments, Vekko acknowledged to himself that he would have lacked the iron nerve to embrace Clyntahn’s strategy for achieving that vision, and he’d actually advised against his old protégé’s … proactive attitude towards the Out Islands. Then again, he’d often thought his own caution was a failing in a true son of Mother Church. A servant of God with the steely spine of a Zhaspahr Clyntahn came along far too rarely, and Vekko could only thank Schuler—and envy them—when they did.
He knew he himself would never have dared to goad the Out Islanders to deliberately provoke a jihad, and there were times, especially when news from the battlefront was bad, when that timorousness of his made it difficult to sleep, worrying about the future. He’d never said as much to Clyntahn, but he knew the Grand Inquisitor had never imagined tiny, distant Charis could possibly survive the initial attack. Neither had Vekko, for that matter, and the fact that it had surely demonstrated Clyntahn had been right from the start. It could never have happened if Shan-wei hadn’t been their secret mistress all along! And if there were times when his faith wavered, when it seemed the accursed weapons with which she’d gifted her minions must prove unstoppable, a little prayer always reassured him with the comforting knowledge that God would not permit Himself to be defeated. And the truth was that the ferocity of the Jihad—the stern measures required to meet its demands—had only further strengthened the Inquisition’s position. Once the Jihad ended in God’s inevitable victory, the Grand Inquisitor’s control of Mother Church—and all of God’s world—would be unbreakable.
Of course, first that victory had to be attained.
“I have a special charge for you, Father,” the bishop inquisitor said, sitting back in his chair. “Father Mairydyth’s brought us an unexpected prize.”
“Indeed, My Lord?”
Hahpyr raised his eyebrows—in question, not surprise. As St. Thyrmyn’s senior interrogator, he was accustomed to being handed “special charges,” and his record of success was unbroken. There was a reason he taught all of the senior courses in interrogation technique, and many of the Inquisition’s most successful agents interrogator had interned under him.
“Indeed.” Vekko nodded, his normally kindly expression stern. “The Grand Inquisitor’s made it clear that we need our best interrogator on this one. And you’ll have to be careful, mind you! If she dies under the Question, Vicar Zhaspahr will be … most unhappy. Is that understood?”
“Of course, My Lord,” Hahpyr murmured. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d allowed a “special charge” to elude God’s searchers in death.
“Very well. I know I can trust your intelligence is much as your efficiency, Bahzwail, but I want to be very clear with you about the needs of this particular interrogation, because its outcome is particularly vital to the Jihad. This isn’t a simple heretic or seditionist—this is an outright rebel against God Himself, a true servant of Shan-wei and Kau-yung.”
“I understand, My Lord.”
“In that case, the first thing to consider—”
* * *
She never knew how much time had passed before the door opened again—abruptly, without warning—and far brighter light streamed in through it. A man in a cassock and priest’s cap stood silhouetted against the brightness, and her darkness-accustomed eyes blinked painfully against the light.
The faceless shape stood gazing down at her, the golden ring of an upper-priest glittering on one hand, then stepped back.