Finally, as she ached in a fire of new bruises, a key was taken to her chains, and the chain released. Perhaps she was to be set free, she thought, as the men dragged her stumbling from the cell. Perhaps something had happened, perhaps politics had demanded her release, or Kessligh had held a blade to someone’s neck-possibly Rhillian’s. Perhaps this punishment was only the final, spiteful gift of those determined to get their shots in while they could.
She did not recognise the corridor down which they pulled her. It was not a part of the main row into which she had penetrated to try to save Alythia. She stumbled down some steps and into a larger dungeon, lit with flame. The air was warm here, and fire burned in an ironmonger’s furnace at the far wall. Chains hung from the ceiling, and upon wooden tables were arrayed rows of grisly implements. Bloodstains spattered the floor, and there was a smell to the air that was not quite foulness, but far from pleasant.
It was fear, Sasha decided, as they dragged her to the hanging chains. It was her own fear. Her eyes would not leave the row of implements on the tabletop, however hard she tried to drag them away. Her heart was hammering. She had long ago confronted the prospect of disfiguring wounds in battle. Such a thing would happen quickly, before she could think on it. This would be slow. She wanted to cry, to scream and beg, and the Lenay warrior in her soul hated herself for it.
The chain between her wrist manacles was linked over a hook, two blows to her midriff ceasing her attempt to struggle. That hook was pulled high with the rattle of a winch, and soon she was nearly dangling, booted toes barely touching the ground. The big man took a sharp knife off the table and stood before her examining it as a farmer might examine his blade before slaughtering a sheep. Sasha tried to kick him, but her ankle chains had been secured to a floor ring, and she only succeeded in thrashing.
The man was bald, with a large belly and thick arms. Another man was handsome, with shoulder-length dark hair and a goatee. His eyes examined her with flat curiosity, and his accent, when he spoke, was that of an educated man.
“Who ordered you to rescue Lady Renine?” he asked her. “Was it Kessligh Cronenverdt?”
Sasha swallowed hard, for a moment not trusting herself to speak. A Lenay warrior did not show fear. “It was my decision,” she said. “Kessligh was not consulted.”
The handsome man nodded to the big one, who inserted the blade into Sasha’s collar, and sliced the shirt neck to hem. He then walked around, and did the same behind, and tore the rest away. The light, serrin undershirt protected her modesty for a moment, but the big man cut that too, and left her topless. Perhaps they thought to humiliate her. Sasha had far worse concerns than that.
The big man then put the blade on the table, and punched her in the stomach. He was powerful, and the blow rocked her back in a jangle of chains, yet it was a relief. She was still too important for them to start cutting. Kessligh would kill them, and by far worse means than they might do to her. Kessligh led the majority of Tracato Nasi-Keth. Things were not that desperate yet.
Several blows later, and she half swung by her aching arms, struggling to breathe, reflecting that just because they weren’t about to start cutting bits off, it didn’t mean this was going to be anything other than hell. With her arms up, she had no way of defending herself. She just tensed hard, and hoped that her countless hours of training had built enough muscle to absorb the worst of it without permanent damage.
The handsome man asked her more questions. He wanted her to admit that she was a pawn of the feudalists, and that Kessligh, by association, was also a pawn. Probably, it occurred to her, Kessligh was not being helpful to the Civid Sein. He was caught between two groups of fanatics, each unwilling to admit the possibility of a third side. Holding the Nasi-Keth together, in the face of such one-eyed stupidity, would not be easy.
Soon her arms and shoulders began to hurt almost worse than her bruises. Her wrist manacles were agony, the chafing metal surely splitting the skin. Her boots were removed and her pants cut away, leaving her in only the thigh-length woollen underwear that she’d always favoured, good for both svaalverd and horsemanship. Strangely, they did not strip her completely naked. It seemed another line they were not prepared to cross. She wondered what was going on above ground that would make it so, and when that line would disappear. She answered the handsome man’s questions truthfully, in part because no other answer would help her, and also because it was not what he wanted to hear. She did not scream or yell in fury, or make threats. She knew, as surely the men did, that if she survived, and were given an opportunity in the future, she would kill them, their comrades, and possibly their families, no matter how they screamed and begged. She would be patient, and wait. If these men knew her intent, though, it was unlikely they would let her live.
Through a haze of pain, she heard the dungeon door open, and a new voice spoke. It was familiar, and she half twisted on her chains to see Reynold Hein, in an expensive dark shirt and elegant boots, the ginger remnants of his hair impeccably trimmed, as was his goatee. He addressed the handsome man calmly, and they spoke in Rhodaani.
She was not surprised to see the man smile, and make an exasperated expression to Reynold’s question. It seemed they were talking about her. Reynold explained himself. The handsome man gave a shrug and put a hand on Sasha’s side, trailing it down her hip to her thigh. Sasha did not waste energy resisting, and calmed herself with visions of the handsome man screaming in agony, her blade twisting in his guts. Then he walked away, heading for the door.
Reynold adjusted his shoulder bandoleer and strolled before her. “Perone is disappointed that I have limited his freedoms here,” he said. “Another woman of your looks might not have been so fortunate.” Sasha said nothing. “You have a pretty face-I told him I would not like to see it scarred.”
Sasha just looked at him, breathing hard, slowly twisting. It did not surprise her particularly that he should be capable of these things, nor that he could inflict them upon someone that he had at least occasionally, in the past, been friendly with.
“There is rather a mess outside,” Reynold continued. He lifted a waterskin from his hip, and took a sip. Only then did Sasha realise how badly she wanted a drink. “The Lady Tathilde Renine is dead. Somehow, word got out to our Rhodaani patriots of her hiding place, and they stormed it in force. The feudalists are now rather upset, as you might imagine, and the Lady Rhillian has abruptly refused to use the Steel to contain their gatherings, as she had been. Upwards of hundreds at a time are now roaming to the west of Ushaal Fortress, and the fighting is fierce. It is all the Steel and Mahl’rhen can do to contain the warfare, and the Nasi-Keth of course, those who remain with Kessligh, are not much use at keeping the peace.”
Sasha knew what he meant. The svaalverd, the ultimate offensive weapon, but useless for defending anything against mass attack. Those Nasi-Keth like Reynold, however, would be a deadly weapon against the feudalists. Slowly the picture was becoming clear to her.
“Thankfully,” Reynold went on, as easily as he had ever discussed politics over a cup of wine, “new militias of rural patriots have entered the city from the east, and gained control of the Justiciary. It does afford us some opportunities, with the prisoners currently held here. We can ask some questions that the Lady Rhillian, for example, might have found distasteful. The Justiciary is currently surrounded by several thousand patriots, and separated from feudal heartlands by the Ushal Fortress, so it would seem that your rescue appears unlikely, in the short term at least. Best that you cooperate with us now.”