He was the fattest Tran Ethan had encountered, an easy-going, pacifistic sort, less blood-thirsty in manner than the common sailors or professional knights and squires.
“What are they doing to him?”
“The captive?” Ta-hoding kept his gaze on the ice far ahead, sliding beneath the bowsprit. “They are questioning him, friend Ethan.”
A faint hissing as of frying bacon sounded above the wind, the noise produced by the five huge duralloy runners slicing across the ice.
“I know that, but… how?”
Ta-hoding appeared to consider the question seriously before finally responding. “I do not know how it is with your people, or with the people here, but in Wannome and its neighboring cities the procedure for interrogating a war prisoner is quite standard ritual.
“To demonstrate his bravery and the strength and honor of his family, the captive will lie eloquently or refuse to answer at all. Thus he issues a challenge to his captors that he is more resourceful and courageous than they. Questions will be put to him, or her, with increasing intensity until the captive can no longer resist. He will then provide proper answers.
“The amount of time and effort the captors must employ to finally force those correct, honest replies will determine how much merit the prisoner earns for use in the afterlife.”
“What happens when there are no more questions?” Ta-hoding looked surprised. “The captive is killed, of course.”
“But that’s inhuman!” Ice crystals scoured his face mask.
Ta-hoding turned his gaze temporarily from the ocean ahead. “We do not lay claim to virtues of being human, friend Ethan. We are Tran. I saw your own sword turned red at the battle of Wannome. Tell me, how do you obtain answers from someone in your own culture who does not wish to cooperate with his captors, or authorities?”
“He’s put on a stress analyzer,” Ethan replied. “A machine. It monitors his answers painlessly and can always tell when a subject is telling the truth.”
“Suppose,” said Ta-hoding thoughtfully, “the prisoner refuses to reply at all?”
“In that case he’s bound over under constraint… locked up until he decides of his own accord to answer.”
“And if he decides never to answer?”
“He stays under constraint, I suppose.”
“And you never obtain the answers you require. Very inefficient. Our way is better.”
“Just a second,” Ethan said. “How do you know his final answers aren’t lies? That he’s only pretending to tell the truth after you’ve tort—questioned him?”
Ta-hoding’s surprise was greater than before. He looked and sounded deeply shocked. “A captive would lose all the merit he’d gained by his resistance. He would die without merit to carry him through the afterlife!”
Ethan changed his own questioning. “After he has answered all the questions put to him, honestly and truthfully, if what you claim actually is the case, then why kill him?”
“Not all are killed.”
“Well, why kill this one?”
“Because he deserves it.” Was there a note of pity for Ethan in the captain’s voice? Nuances of Tran speech could still give Ethan trouble.
He decided to say something, changed his mind. Better to drop the discussion when the subject of it was still undergoing ordeal.
Or was he? Ethan strained, heard only the rush of wind and sizzle of runner against ice.
September and Hunnar made their way onto the deck. Ethan wondered if his oversized companion had actually watched the procedure. At times he felt a tremendous fondness for the giant, for his easy good humor, his utter disregard for danger and willingness to risk himself for a friend. At other times…
Skua September, he reflected, was kin to the Tran in ways other than physical size. When those ways manifested themselves, they made Ethan and Milliken Williams more than a little uncomfortable. He viewed September’s personality as an apple. The skin of civilization was bright and polished, but very, very thin.
“Well, young feller-me-lad, we’ve learned what needed to be learned.”
“I’m sure you did,” Ethan replied, trying to keep his voice neutral. But he couldn’t keep himself from asking, “Who did the final killing? You, Sir Hunnar?”
The Tran knight looked upset. “I, friend Ethan? I would not break courtesy so! It was not my place, the honor of dispatching one who had gained much merit not rightfully mine. That was left,” he added casually, “to the one most offended in the matter.”
Refusing to allow Ethan to ignore the obvious, September finished with fine, indifferent brutality, “The girl did it. Who else? She wanted to do it slowly,” he continued conversationally, “but Hunnar and Balavere overruled her. Since the captive held out long and bravely, she had to be satisfied with cutting off his—”
Ethan put his hands over his ears beneath the suit, moved them only when September’s mouth stopped moving. He felt sick.
“You didn’t hear,” the giant said gently, “how they treated her.”
“What items of enormous value did you beat out of him?” Ethan muttered disconsolately.
September moved to the railing, looked down at the lightly snow-dusted ice whisking past beneath the ship. “That attack on us was about as accidental and unpremeditated as the one back in the tavern in Arsudun.
“Our prisoner held a rank somewhere between knight and squire. The commander of the fortress was not quite a full knight. They received orders—the prisoner didn’t know exactly when—to assault the Slander-scree as it rounded the island’s southern headland and take it if possible.”
“He did not know,” Hunnar broke in, “who sent the orders. His commander never told him. But when it was mentioned that you and friend September were aboard, human outlanders, there were questions from the common garrison. They had been taught that humans were not to be harmed.”
September, turning from the railing, continued. “For the purposes of this one attack, it seems that that special admonition was to be ignored. Such instructions suggested to our prisoner and to us that the order for the attack came from someone very important and influential, perhaps even the Landgrave of Arsudun. The prisoner refused to believe this.
“I suspect something more than that, feller-me-lad.” The railing groaned with his weight. “The Slanderscree’s a rich prize for any locals. But for the local Landgrave to countenance the murder of us happy hairless ones, he must feel pretty confident of his position. Matter of fact, he’d have to be almost positive that if the attack failed and word of it got back to Brass Monkey, he wouldn’t be subject to reprisals from the local Commonwealth authorities. Which suggests to me that there’s collusion between this Landgrave and someone mighty important inside the station hierarchy.”
“Trell?”
September considered Ethan’s suggestion uncertainly. “I dunno. He was nice enough to us. I’d think someone immediately below him, maybe even that portmaster Xenaxis. He supervises every kilo of trade. It could be anyone with a stake in maintainin’ the present monopoly on Tran trade.
“What’s important is this means we can’t expect help from anyone in Brass Monkey while we’re outside the station confines. It’s open season until the next Commonwealth ship arrives in orbit. That’s two months away. If we return and report now, we’ll spend two months fending off assassinations in one form or another. Now that we’ve been openly attacked, whoever’s covering for the Landgrave or high Arsudun native official will take steps to cover his tracks.” He glanced down toward the central cabin, where Eer-Meesach and Williams were engaged in frenetic conversation.
“I’d like more discussion, though, before we decide for sure.”