Laughter from one of the other men. Sasha made certain she got a good look at his face. She wanted to recall that laugh, when she killed him. It was with little surprise that she recognised the man-it was Timoth Salo, the young nobleman of the Tol’rhen, Reynold Hein’s prized convert to the Civid Sein.
“Someone had the very clever idea,” Perone continued, “that she might be more responsive to someone else’s pain than her own.” He shrugged. “I don’t hold much hope, but I’m willing to give it a try.”
He lashed with the cane, and a sharp, red line appeared across Errollyn’s stomach. Errollyn made not a sound.
“Rhillian will kill you!” Sasha snarled. “All the serrin will kill you, you neither harm nor kill serrin without setting all of Saalshen at your throat!”
Perone smiled. “Oh, I think you exaggerate.” He signalled to the big, bald man, who drove a fist hard into Errollyn’s ribs. Errollyn barely grunted, swinging on his chains. “Rhillian could have demanded his release, but she did not. Besides, the serrin are fools to think they could rule Tracato. This city belongs to the true patriots of Rhodaan, and we rule here now. All who stand against us are traitors, human and serrin alike.”
His stroll brought him to the horrid little table, picked up a nasty little blade, and examined it. Sasha’s heart galloped. Another fist drove into Errollyn’s midriff. “Stop it!” Sasha screamed at them. “Leave him alone!”
Errollyn’s green eyes were fixed on her. “Sasha,” he said hoarsely. “No sheth an sary. You tried to explain it to me once. Now I understand.”
Perone strolled back to him, the blade in hand. Tears spilled in Sasha’s eyes, sobs threatening to wrack her body.
“The only comfort,” Errollyn told her, in Lenay, “is in the knowledge that you will kill these men. Concentrate on that, and do not fear for me. Your revenge shall sustain me.”
Perone’s knife flashed, and a new red line appeared, this one trickling blood. Pain flashed on Errollyn’s face, yet he made no sound. Sasha thrashed against her chains, in desperation, crying. Perone slashed again. No one asked her any questions.
Later that night, if night it was, Sasha awoke. It had not been sleep, merely unconsciousness. She lay on dirty straw in her cell, mostly naked, in chains. Her body bore no new injuries, but in her memory, she now carried her last sight of Errollyn as they’d unhooked him from the ceiling. There’d been a lot of blood, drenching his pants. A thin maze of scars across his torso. They’d used salt, which had finally made him scream. She’d never before in her life heard Errollyn scream. It did worse than make her cry, or make her stomach retch-it robbed him of that strength of dignity he’d always carried.
But he’d been alive when they’d dragged him away. The cuts were shallow, designed more for pain than injury. She clung to that hope.
She wanted to think, but could not. Her mind was awash with pain, with fury, with exhaustion and fear. The fever she had feared had not advanced, yet still her skin flushed hot and cold. Her burns seemed to have come up in blisters. Her stomach muscles were bruised, her wrists badly strained beneath the chafing, but most of the injuries were no more than skin deep. Were she to get free, she was certain she could still move fast if she had to. If she could ignore the pain.
She closed her eyes, not wishing to see the dull, grey stone of the cell, lit by a single, yellow lantern. Not wishing the disorientation of feeling the walls and ceiling swinging around her. She would be all right. As would Errollyn.
She might have slept for a moment, she could not tell, but suddenly there was a rattle of keys, and the clank of the door’s lock. The door squealed open. A thud as something was thrown into the cell, and then the door closed once more. Food maybe. One of those big, ugly loaves of stale bread. Sasha’s stomach turned. She was not hungry, but she should try to eat.
She opened her eyes, and slowly focused on the object on the stones before her. It was a human head, facing her, eyes open. Long black hair. The eyes, the features, were Alythia’s.
Sasha screamed.
A long time later, she was still screaming.
There was a commotion when they dragged her next from the cell. The first flight of steps did not go down, as before, but up. Dazed, Sasha realised she was being led out of the catacombs entirely. A cloak was thrown about her bare shoulders, covering her to the knees.
She registered a broad hall, filled with light, blinking and squinting as she was shuffled across the flagstones. Men were shouting, footsteps running, weapons clattering…and was it her imagination, or could she hear the distant sounds of battle? Yes, and then, clearly, there came a clash of weapons. The Justiciary was under assault. A thousand Civid Sein defenders, Rhillian had said. Who was assaulting? The feudalists? The Steel? Kessligh’s Nasi-Keth? All three, she hoped.
She was pulled up more stairs, three flights in total…the Justiciary was no taller than four floors, surely? She could not recall. Despite the chains, the sleepless night, the lack of food, the horror, her head felt clear. The stairs seemed to help, as exercise always did…but mostly, she thought, it was the prospect of battle. It made her nostrils flare, like some old warhorse.
On the upper floor, her guards handed her to Perone, whose two Civid Sein companions dragged her down a corridor and into a small room that might have been a study. They threw her down on a chair beside a bookshelf, and one man stood by to guard her, his sword out. Perone gave that guard a harsh instruction in Rhodaani, then left, slamming the door behind. By the guard’s stance, Sasha guessed those words had been to the effect of: “If she tries anything, kill her.” Chained hand and foot, she did not fancy her chances.
There was an arched window nearby. With gritted teeth, she heaved herself from the chair and shuffled to the window, hunched like an old woman. The guard did not protest, but watched her all the way, his blade ready.
She had a view of the Ushal Fortress, across a jumble of tiled roofs. It was morning, she saw from the light. It had been just one night then, that the Civid Sein had occupied the Justiciary. Possibly Kessligh knew what that would mean, for her. Possibly that knowledge had forced his hand. She knew better than to assume so. Kessligh had far more on his plate than just concern for his wayward uma.
The sounds of battle were clear from this height. It was difficult to discern their location. Sasha guessed that was partly because the battle was all around. The Justiciary was being attacked from all sides. The feudalists would have the numbers for such an attack, but not access to the eastern approaches, which were away from feudalist heartland and currently strong with Civid Sein. The Nasi-Keth lacked the numbers, and were no good for massed combat anyway. It had to be the Steel. True to her word, Rhillian had lost patience.
The door crashed open and an angry-looking Perone strode back in. He paced across the room, apparently aimless, then reversed. Then kicked at a table, furiously, and snapped at the guard. Perone, Sasha noted, was wearing a swordbelt, good boots and a wide-collared leather jacket. The stylish attire of a wealthy Tracatan. Curious choice, for a Civid Sein revolutionary.
The argument with the guard continued. The guard looked a genuine country lad, tall and blond, freckled and missing some teeth. Sasha caught a few words, and knew enough of young men and warfare to guess that Perone had been told to stay here, and not to go out and fight. Guarding her, no less.
Perone saw her watching. He stopped and gave an exasperated laugh. “Look at her,” he said, in Torovan. “Thinking this all so amusing.” Abruptly he made toward her. Sasha backed away from the window, her ankle chains nearly overbalancing her. Perone caught at her wrist chain, and Sasha lashed back. Perone’s blow struck her head, and suddenly she was on the floor, seeing stars.