"I'm chained hand, head and foot," Westley said. "How much movement do you think I'm capable of?"
"Are you really as brave as you sound, or are you a little frightened? The truth, please. This is for posterity, remember."
"I'm a little frightened," Westley replied.
The Count jotted that down, along with the time. Then he got down to the fine work, and soon there were tiny tiny soft rimmed cups on the insides of Westley's nostrils, against his eardrums, under his eyelids, above and below his tongue, and before the Count arose, Westley was covered inside and out with the things. "Now all I do," the Count said very loudly, hoping Westley could hear, "is get the wheel going to its fastest spin so that I have more than enough power to operate. And the dial can be set from one to twenty and, this being the first time, I will set it at the lowest setting, which is one. And then all I need do is push the lever forward, and we should, if I haven't gummed it up, be in full operation."
But Westley, as the lever moved, took his brain away, and when the Machine began, Westley was stroking her autumn-colored hair and touching her skin of wintry cream and—and—and then his world exploded—because the cups, the cups were everywhere, and before, they had punished his body but left his brain, only not the Machine; the Machine reached everywhere—his eyes were not his to control and his ears could not hear her gentle loving whisper and his brain slid away, slid far from love into the deep fault of despair, hit hard, fell again, down through the house of agony into the county of pain. Inside and out, Westley's world was ripping apart and he could do nothing but crack along with it.
The Count turned off the Machine then, and as he picked up his notebooks he said, "As you no doubt know, the concept of the suction pump is centuries old—well, basically, that's all this is, except instead of water, I'm sucking life; I've just sucked away one year of your life. Later I'll set the dial higher, certainly to two or three, perhaps even to five. Theoretically, five should be five times more severe than what you've just endured, so please be specific in your answers. Tell me now, honestly: how do you feel?"
In humiliation, and suffering, and frustration, and anger, and anguish so great it was dizzying, Westley cried like a baby.
"Interesting," said the Count, and carefully noted it down.
IT TOOK YELLIN a week to get his enforcers together in sufficient number, together with an adequate brute squad. And so, five days before the wedding, he stood at the head of his company awaiting the speech of the Prince. This was in the castle courtyard, and when the Prince appeared, the Count was, as usual, with him, although, not as usual, the Count seemed preoccupied. Which, of course, he was, though Yellin had no way of knowing that. The Count had sucked ten years from Westley this past week, and, with the life of sixty-five that was average for a Florinese male, the victim had approximately thirty years remaining, assuming he was about twenty-five when they started experimenting. But how best to go about dividing that? The Count was simply in a quandary. So many possibilities, but which would prove, scientifically, most interesting? The Count sighed; life was never easy.
"You are here," the Prince began, "because there may be another plot against my beloved. I charge each and every one of you with being her personal protector. I want the Thieves Quarter empty and all the inhabitants jailed twenty-four hours before my wedding. Only then will I rest easy. Gentlemen, I beg you: think of this mission as being an affair of the heart, and I know you will not fail." With that he pivoted and, followed by the Count, hurried from the courtyard, leaving Yellin in command.
The conquest of the Thieves Quarter began immediately. Yellin worked long and hard at it each day, but the Thieves Quarter was a mile square, so there was much to do. Most of the criminals had been through unjust and illegal roundups before, so they offered little resistance. They knew the jails were not celled enough for all of them, so if it meant a few days' incarceration, what did it matter?
There was, however, a second group of criminals, those who realized that capture meant, for various past performances, death, and these, without exception, resisted. In general, Yellin, through adroit handling of the Brute Squad, was able to bring these bad fellows, eventually, under control.
Still, thirty-six hours before the sunset wedding, there were half a dozen holdout left in the Thieves Quarter. Yellin arose at dawn and, tired and confused—not one of the captured criminals seemed to come from Guilder—he gathered the best of the Brute Squad and led them into the Thieves Quarter for what simply had to be the final foray.
Yellin went immediately to Falkbridge's Alehouse, first sending all save two Brutes off on various tasks, keeping a noisy one and a quiet one for his own needs. He knocked on Falkbridge's door and waited. Falkbridge was by far the most powerful man in the Thieves Quarter. He seemed almost to own half of it and there wasn't a crime of any dimension he wasn't behind. He always avoided arrest, and everyone except Yellin thought Falkbridge must be bribing somebody. Yellin knew he was bribing somebody, since every month, rain or shine, Falkbridge came to Yellin's house and gave him a satchel full of money.
"Who?" Falkbridge called from inside the alehouse.
"The Chief of All Enforcement in Florin City, accompanied by Brutes," Yellin replied. Completeness was one of his virtues.
"Oh." Falkbridge opened the door. For a power, he was very unimposing, short and chubby. "Come in."
Yellin entered, leaving the two Brutes in the doorway. "Get ready and be quick," Yellin said.
"Hey, Yellin, it's me," Falkbridge said softly.
"I know, I know," Yellin said softly right back. "But please, do me a favor, get ready."
"Pretend I did. I'll stay in the alehouse, I promise. I got enough food; no one will ever know."
"The Prince is without mercy," Yellin said. "If I let you stay and I'm found out, that's it for me."
"I been paying you twenty years to stay out of jail. You're a rich man just so I don't have to go to jail. Where's the logic of me paying you and no advantages?"
"I'll make it up to you. I'll get you the best cell in Florin City. Don't you trust me?"
"How can I trust a man I pay twenty years to stay out of jail when all of a sudden, the minute a little extra pressure's on, he says 'go to jail'? I'm not going."
"You!" Yellin signaled to the noisy one.
The Brute started running forward.
"Put this man in the wagon immediately," Yellin said.
Falkbridge was starting to explain when the noisy one clubbed him across the neck.
"Not so hard!" Yellin cried.
The noisy one picked up Falkbridge, tried dusting his clothes.
"Is he alive?" Yellin asked.
"See, I didn't know you wanted him breathing in the wagon; I thought you only wanted him in the wagon breathing or not, so—"
"Enough," Yellin interrupted and, upset, he hurried out of the alehouse while the noisy one brought Falkbridge. "Is that everyone then?" Yellin asked as various Brutes were visible leaving the Thieves Quarter pulling various wagons.
"I think there's still the fencer with the brandy," the noisy one began. "See, they tried getting him out yesterday but—"
"I can't be bothered with a drunk; I'm an important man, get him out of here and do it now, both of you; take the wagon with you, and be quick! This quarter must be locked and deserted by sundown or the Prince will be mad at me, and I don't like it much when the Prince is mad at me."
"We're going, we're going," the noisy one replied, and he hurried off, letting the quiet one bring the wagon with Falkbridge inside. "They tried getting this fencer yesterday, some of the standard enforcers, but it seems he has certain sword skills that made them wary, but I think I have a trick that will work." The quiet one hurried along behind, dragging the wagon. They rounded a corner, and from around another corner just up ahead, a kind of drunken mumbling was starting to get louder.