I could have run, and perhaps lost them for a time in the darkness. But in the end, that game was theirs. I’d have to come back for water eventually. If they did not track me down on the flat land by daylight on horseback, they could simply sit by the waterhole and wait me out. Besides, to flee was to admit I was FitzChivalry. Tom the shepherd would not run.
And so I looked up, startled and anxious when they came for me, but not, I hoped, betraying the heart-pounding fear I felt. I came to my feet, and when one seized me by an arm, I did not struggle but only looked up at him incredulously. Another guard came up from the other side, to take both my knife and my sword. “Come down to the fire,” she told me gruffly. “Captain wants a look at you.”
I went quietly, almost limply, and when they had reassembled at the campfire to present me to Bolt, I looked fearfully from one face to another, being careful not to single out Bolt. I was not sure I could look at him full face at close range and betray nothing. Bolt stood up, kicked at the fire to stir up the flames, and then came to inspect me. I caught a glimpse of Tassin’s pale face and hair peeking at me around the end of the puppeteer’s wagon. For a time Bolt just stood looking at me. After a time, he pursed his mouth and gave his guards a disgusted look. With a small shake of his head, he let them know I wasn’t what he’d wanted. I dared to take a deeper breath.
“What’s your name?” Bolt suddenly demanded of me sharply.
I squinted at him across the fire. “Tom, sir. Tom the shepherd. I’ve done nothing wrong.”
“Haven’t you? Then you’re the only man in the world who hasn’t. You sound like a Buckman, Tom. Take off your kerchief.”
“I am, sir. From Buck, sir. But times are hard there.” I hastily dragged my kerchief off, then stood clutching and wringing it. I hadn’t taken Starling’s advice about staining my hair. That wouldn’t have done any good during a close inspection. Instead, I had used my looking glass and plucked out a good portion of the white hairs. Not all of them, but what I had now appeared more as a scattering of gray hair above my brow rather than a white streak. Bolt came around the fire to have a closer look at it. I flinched when he gripped me by the hair and tilted my head back to stare down into my face. He was as big and muscled as I remembered him. Every evil memory I had of him suddenly flooded my mind. I swear I even recalled the smell of him. The wretched sickness of fear filled me.
I offered him no resistance as he glared down at me. Nor did I meet his eyes, but rather shot frightened looks at him and then glanced away as if beseeching help. I noticed that Madge had come from somewhere and was standing, arms crossed on her chest, regarding us.
“Got a scar on your cheek, don’t you, man?” Bolt demanded of me.
“Yes, sir, I do. Got it when I was a boy, fell out of a tree and a branch cut me. . . .”
“You break your nose then, too?”
“No, sir, no, that was a tavern brawl, that was, about a year ago. . . .”
“Take off your shirt!” he demanded.
I fumbled at the neck of it, then dragged it off over my head. I had thought he would look at my forearms and was prepared with my nail story for that. Instead he leaned over to look at a place between my shoulder and my neck, where a Forged one had bitten a chunk out of me in a long-ago fight. My bowels turned to water. He looked at the gnarled scar there, then suddenly threw his head back and laughed.
“Damn. I didn’t think it was you, Bastard. I was sure it wasn’t. But that’s the mark I remember seeing, the first time I drove you into the floor.” He looked at the men standing around us, surprise and delight still on his face. “It’s him! We’ve got him. The King’s got his Skillwizards spread from the Mountains to the coast looking for him, and he falls like fruit into our hands.” He licked his lips as he ran his eyes over me gloatingly. I sensed a strange hunger in him, one he almost feared. He seized me suddenly by the throat and hauled me up on my toes. He brought his face close to mine as he hissed, “Understand me. Verde was a friend. It’s not a hundred gold pieces for you alive that keeps me from killing you here. It’s only my faith that my king can come up with more interesting ways for you to die than I can improvise here. You’re mine again, Bastard, in the circle. Or as much of you as my king leaves for me anyway.”
He shoved me violently away from him into the fire. I stumbled through it and was immediately seized by two men on the other side. I looked from one to the other wildly. “It’s a mistake!” I cried out. “A terrible mistake!”
“Shackle him,” Bolt ordered them hoarsely.
Madge stepped suddenly forward. “You’re certain of this man?” she asked him directly.
He met her eyes, captain to captain. “I am. It’s the WitBastard.”
A look of total disgust crossed Madge’s face. “Then take him and welcome to him.” She turned on her heel and walked away.
My guards had been watching the conversation between Madge and their captain rather than paying attention to the trembling man between them. I chanced it all, breaking toward the fire as I snapped my arms free of their careless grips. I shouldered a startled Bolt aside and fled like a rabbit. I wove through the camp, past the tinker’s wagon, and saw only wide-open country before me. Dawn had grayed the plain to a featureless rumpled blanket. No cover, no destination. I just ran.
I had expected men on foot after me, or men on horses. I hadn’t expected a man with a sling. The first rock hit me on the flat of my left shoulder, numbing my arm. I kept running. I thought at first I’d taken an arrow. Then the bolt of lightning hit me.
When I woke up, my wrists were chained. My left shoulder ached horribly, but not as badly as the lump on my head. I managed to wiggle up to a sitting position. No one paid much attention to me. A shackle on each of my ankles was hooked to the length of chain that ran up and through a loop forged onto the chain that shackled my wrists together. A second, much shorter chain between my ankles was not even enough to let me take a full step. If I’d been able to stand.
I said nothing, did nothing. Shackled, I had no chance against six armed men. I didn’t want to give them any excuse to brutalize me. Still, it took every bit of my will to sit quietly and consider my situation. The sheer weight of the chain was daunting, as was the chill of the iron biting into my flesh in the cold night air. I sat, head bowed, looking at my feet. Bolt noticed I was awake. He came to stand looking down at me. I kept my eyes on my own feet.
“Say something, damn you!” Bolt ordered me suddenly.
“You’ve got the wrong man, sir,” I said timidly. I knew there would be no convincing him of that, but perhaps I could shake his men’s belief.
Bolt laughed. He went and sat back down by the fire. Then he lay back on his elbows. “If I have, it’s just too damn bad for you. But I know I don’t. Look at me, Bastard. How was it you didn’t stay dead?”
I shot him a fearful glance. “I don’t know what you mean, sir.”
It was the wrong response. He was tigerish in his speed, coming up from his reclining position to fly across the fire at me. I scrabbled to my feet but there was no escaping him. He seized me by my chains, drew me up, and slapped me stingingly. Then, “Look at me,” he ordered.
I brought my eyes back to his face.
“How was it you didn’t die, Bastard?”
“It wasn’t me. You’ve got the wrong man.”
I got the back of his hand the second time.
Chade had once told me that, under torture, it is easier to resist questioning if you focus your mind on what you will say, rather than what you must not. I knew it was stupid and useless to tell Bolt I was not FitzChivalry. He knew I was. But having adopted that course, I stuck to it. The fifth time he hit me, one of his men spoke out behind me.