“Phaugh!” Tanaros raised the torch. “I forget how it stinks.”
“No point in a pleasant prison,” Vorax said pragmatically.
Stepping onto the first stair, Tanaros paused. “You didn’t put the Lady Cerelinde in such a place, I hope.”
“No.” Torchlight made a bearded mask of the Staccian’s face. “She’s our guest, cousin, or so his Lordship would have it. Her quarters are as fine as my own; more so, if your taste runs to Ellylon gewgaws.”
“Cood,” Tanaros said shortly. The winding stairs were slippery and he took them with care, one at a time. It would be a bitter irony indeed if he slipped and broke his neck here and now, in the safe confines of Darkhaven. Something moved in the reeking darkness below; there was a sound of chains rattling, a phlegmy cough. “Tell me of the prisoner. He was captured in the Weavers’ Gulch?”
Behind him, Vorax wheezed with the effort of descending. “Trussed like a goose in spider-silk and glaring mad at it. He bolted like a rabbit when the Thunder Voice challenged him at the Maw. They let him go to see how far he’d get.”
In the darkness, Tanaros smiled. “You put him to the questioning?”
“Aye.” Vorax bent over, resting his meaty hands on his knees. “Some of Hyrgolf’s lads gave him a few love-taps when he struggled. Otherwise, we held his feet to the fire.” Seeing Tanaros’ expression, he straightened. “Only the usual, not enough to cripple. He might be missing a few fingernails.”
“And?” Tanaros waited mid-stair.
“Nothing.” The Staccian shrugged. “Says he’s a Midlander, a horse-thief. Says he’s here to offer his service. Doesn’t appear to be mad. We waited for you, otherwise.”
“My thanks, cousin.” Descending the final steps, his boots squelched in the damp. There must have been an inch of standing water on the floor, seeping through the dungeon’s foundation. Tanaros crossed the cell and thrust the torch into a waiting sconce. “Let’s see what we have.”
It took a moment for his eyes to adjust. Wavering torchlight reflected on the standing water and the dark, moisture-slick walls. On the far wall, a single prisoner hung, knees sagging, resting his weight on the chains that held his arms upraised. Under Tanaros’ regard, he hauled himself upright, his blistered feet disturbing the stagnant water. “General Tanaros Blacksword.” A broad Midlander accent placed his origin in the fertile territories south of Curonan. He was young, not out of his twenties, with light brown hair falling matted and greasy over his brow. “A fine welcome you give those who would serve you.”
“Count yourself lucky for it, boyo,” Vorax muttered, making his way to the bottom of the stair, one hand on the wall for balance. “The Tordenstem Fjel could have killed you as easily as not.”
“Lucky me.” The prisoner smiled crookedly. His lips were split and swollen, one of his front teeth a ragged stump, broken by a Fjel love-tap. “What do you say, General? Could you use one such as me?”
Tanaros folded his arms. “Who are you?”
“Speros of Haimhault. I’d make a proper bow, Lord General, but …” The prisoner twitched his hands, dangling limp in their iron manacles. His fourth and fifth fingers ended in raw wounds. “Well, you see.”
“And you seek to offer your service?” Tanaros raised his brows. “Others in your position might complain of such treatment.”
The prisoner Speros shrugged, causing his chains to rattle. “I came unannounced. Darkhaven has cause for suspicion. Shall we say as much and begin anew?”
Vorax stifled a yawn and settled his bulk on a three-legged stool left by the prisoner’s questioners. Tanaros ignored him, eyeing the young man. “Lord Vorax says you claim to be a horse-thief.”
“I have done.” Brown eyes glinted through matted hair. “Stole a Seaholder lordling’s mount, once, when I was employed at a blacksmith’s forge. Cut purses, wooed women I’d no intent to wed. Served as second-in-command to the volunteer militia of Haimhault, for a time. I’ve done lots of things, Lord General. I’ve lots of ideas, too. I’m chock full of ideas.”
“Have you shed innocent blood?” Tanaros asked brusquely.
There was a pause, then, punctuated only by another stifled Staccian yawn.
“Aye.” The prisoner’s voice was soft. “That, too.”
Tanaros paced the narrow cell, his boot-heels splashing in the standing water. In the wavering torchlight, Vorax watched him without offering comment. As it was, as it should be. It was true, this was one of his, one of his own. He fetched up before the prisoner, peering at his bruised face. “You do know where you are? This is Darkhaven, lad. Beyond the wall, the world is our enemy. If you swear loyalty to Lord Satoris—for it is him you will serve, and not me—it will be your enemy, too. Your name will become poison, a symbol of the worst betrayal a man may commit.”
“Aye, Lord General.” Speros straightened in his chains. “I know.”
“Then why?”
An inch could have closed the space between them; even in chains, Speros could have flinched. He didn’t, clenching his manacled fists instead. Blood fell, drop by drop, from his wounded fingertips. It made a faint splashing sound as it struck the water. “You need to ask?”
Tanaros nodded. He could smell the prisoner’s suppurating wounds. “I do.”
“I’m tired of paying for my sins.” Speros smiled, taut and bitter. “I never set out to become a thief and a killer, but it’s funny the way things go. You make enough mistakes, comes a day when no one will take a chance on you. Arahila may forgive, General Blacksword, but her Children do not. I am weary to the bone of courting their forgiveness. Lord Satoris accepted your service. Why not mine?”
Had he been that young, that defiant, twelve hundred years ago? Yes, Tanaros thought; he had been. Twenty-and-eight years of age, hunted and despised throughout the realm. Kingslayer, they had called him. Wifeslayer, some had whispered. Cuckold. Murderer. He had yearned for death, fought for life. A summons tickling his fevered brain had led him to Darkhaven.
Still, he shook his head. “You’re young and angry at the world. It will pass.”
The brown eyes glinted. “As yours did?”
Tanaros awarded him a slight smile. “Anger is only the beginning, Midlander. It does not suffice unto itself.”
“What, then?” Speros shifted in his chains, but his gaze never left Tanaros’ face. “Tell me, General, and I will answer. Why do you serve him? For gold and glory, like the Staccians? Out of mindless loyalty, like the Fjeltroll?”
On his stool, Vorax coughed. Tanaros glanced at him.
“The Staccians’ bargain grants peace and prosperity to the many at a cost to the few,” he said. “And the Fjel are not so mindless as you think.”
“Yet that is not an answer,” Speros said. “Not your answer.”
“No.” Tanaros faced him. “I serve my Lord Satoris because, in my heart, I have declared myself the enemy of his enemies. Because I despise the hypocrisy and cowardice of the Six Shapers who oppose him. Because I despise the tyranny of certitude with which Haomane First-Born seeks to rule over the world, placing his Children above all others.” His voice grew stern. “Make no mistake, lad. For many years, his Lordship sought nothing more than to live unmolested, but great deeds are beginning to unfold. I tell you this, here and now; if you swear yourself to Lord Satoris’ service, you are declaring yourself an enemy of the Lord-of-Thought himself, and a participant in a battle to Shape the world anew.”