He looked at Vazhad, and for a moment the torchlight caught in his eyes, making him look very much like one of the undead baazuled whose black gazes were lit with a tiny spark of fire. But then he looked to the basin. “Well done,” he said. “Well done, indeed. This suits our purposes perfectly.”
Two more baazuled came next-one a Creel Vazhad had never known, even in life; the other a Damaran who Vazhad thought seemed vaguely familiar. The Creel was carrying a leather bag that sagged with a heavy weight.
Behind them, Kathkur strode into the yard. The muscles in the eladrin’s face were pulled taut, his left eye twitched incessantly, and the symbol gouged into his forehead flickered with a flamelike light. Kathkur ignored Vazhad, for his eyes were fixed on the basin and the chains that lay there. “What is this?” he asked.
Three others entered the yard behind him-two more baazuled and the Damaran that Yarin had sent. Vazhad searched his memory for the name. Thudreg? Thidrek? Something like that. He had been the first of the living vessels seized by Jagun Ghen’s brother as a new home. The symbol on his forehead was different than that on the eladrin, and Vazhad wondered if it had something to do with the demon’s name. But it flickered with the same unsettling light.
“This,” said Jagun Ghen, pointing at the basin, “is a necessary discomfort. Your host is becoming … a nuisance. But an intriguing one. I need to speak to him. But I want him to behave himself when I do so.”
Kathkur stopped walking and fell into a crouch. His eyes flitted back and forth. “You mean-”
“You said this one keeps … ‘squirming out’ of your grip, I believe you said. We cannot have that.”
Kathkur looked back to the alleyway, but the three who had followed him in were blocking the way. “Please … I can control him, lord. I-”
Jagun Ghen cut him off, “Of all our brethren who have come into the world, only this one has managed to resist us. I must know why.”
“I-I won’t go back. I-”
“You will do as I say. I am not sending you anywhere, Brother. After all I have sacrificed to bring you here? I would never do that. But I need you to … relent on this one. Just for a short time.”
“B-but his screams …”
Jagun Ghen laid a hand on the eladrin’s shoulder. With another, this might have been seen as an attempt at comfort or reassurance. But Vazhad saw how the fingers tightened, the thumb almost tearing the skin.
“Let us hear those screams, Brother,” said Jagun Ghen. “Just for a while.”
Kathkur shook his head. “I-”
He tried to pull away, but Jagun Ghen tightened his grip, and two baazuled stepped forward, grabbing the eladrin’s arms.
“No!” Kathkur shrieked. “Please, lord! I-”
But then he lost all words-at least in any language Vazhad had ever heard. The eladrin thrashed and kicked and screamed as the baazuled dragged him into the basin. The symbol on his forehead flared, and inky smoke slithered down onto his face.
The baazuled fixed the shackles to the eladrin’s wrists and stepped away. Kathkur’s arms were stretched straight out. The chains were almost too short, but they kept his thrashing under control. He couldn’t even stand fully upright, only managing a low crouch. Still, it did not stop him from trying, and his wrists were already torn and bleeding.
The Creel baazuled with the leather bag stepped forward, and again Vazhad remembered the man in the red tunic stepping forward to smash the skull of the ox. The baazuled held the bottom of the bag and let the top fall, upending the contents. A brass collar fell to the dust. The torchlight winked on symbols that had been etched into its surface.
Jagun Ghen said, “Put it on him.”
Kathkur’s eyes widened, he cried even louder, and the tears streaming down his cheeks began to steam and mix with the foul miasma leaking from the rune on his forehead.
The baazuled approached Kathkur from behind to avoid his flailing kicks. Still, Kathkur twisted his head and tried to bite, but the baazuled did his business quickly, bending the brass just wide enough to allow the eladrin’s neck to pass through, then squeezing it shut again. As soon as the ends came together, every symbol on the collar’s surface blazed red. The baazuled took a few steps back but remained in the basin.
Jagun Ghen stepped forward until the toe of his boot touched the stone rim. “Kathkur,” he said, calm as if he were beginning a conversation over the evening table.
The eladrin stopped screaming, fell to his knees, and stared treason at his master.
“That’s better,” said Jagun Ghen. “The sooner you relent, the sooner this will be over, and we can release you.”
“The”-Kathkur spoke through a jaw clenched so tightly that his entire head was trembling-“the … c-collar!”
“Intended for the eladrin, not you. Let me speak to him. Now.”
“N-no. No, I won’t. I … can’t!”
Jagun Ghen reached inside the sleeve of his robe and withdrew a rod. Scarcely longer than a man’s hand, Vazhad saw that it was made of brass, like the collar, and etched with the same sorts of symbols.
Kathkur’s eyes widened at the sight of it. “No. You said it was not for me. You-”
“You will submit,” said Jagun Ghen, raising the brass rod, “one way or another.”
Kathkur shrieked and thrashed, ripping skin and flesh from his wrists, pulling against the chains.
Jagun Ghen spoke an incantation, and the symbols etched in the brass rod he held flickered, flared, and then settled to a steady red glow. Vazhad had seen the rod only once before, when Argalath had first purchased it from a Thayan.
The eladrin kicked at the basin with such force that the bones in one foot shattered-Vazhad heard them even over the screaming. Kathkur’s back arched, and the light from the rune on his forehead blazed, and then went out. The eladrin’s eyes rolled back in his head, a final tremor shook him, and he sagged. Only the chains kept him from falling on his face. He hung there, his chest heaving, and when he looked up, even Vazhad could see that the demon had gone.
“Who are you?” said Jagun Ghen.
The eladrin looked around, his gaze passing Jagun Ghen, counting the baazuled, lingering on Vazhad for an instant, then the high walls around him.
“Highwatch?” he said, his voice a raw rasp.
The mottled blue of Argalath’s spellscar flickered, just for a moment, almost imperceptible against the torchlight. But the eladrin flinched as if he’d been jabbed with a dagger, took in a great draught of air, and clenched his jaw against the pain.
The eladrin swallowed, then said, “She … told me. About you. You’re even scrawnier than-”
The spellscar flared again, brighter this time. The eladrin’s jaw dropped as he struggled for breath.
“We will discuss her shortly,” said Jagun Ghen. “Ignore my question again and I will have one of my brothers bite off a finger. Now, who are you?”
It took the eladrin a long time to catch his breath. But he looked up at Jagun Ghen at last and said, “Ko … vannon. My name. Is Kovannon.”
The Creel baazuled said, “He lies. The one called Kovannon I left alive. His companions-Durel, Ulender-those two I killed.”
The eladrin tried to twist his head around to see who was speaking, but he could not quite manage it.
“My brother,” said Jagun Ghen, “did not always wear this form. Once, he had the skin of Jatara. A most faithful servant. So you see. I know you lie. I can smell Ellestharn and its bitch queen on you. You reek of winter.” He stepped forward, grasped the eladrin by the chin, and raised his head. “It would be best if you give me what I want. If not, I will take it.”
The eladrin held his gaze a long time. He must have seen something there that shook him, for he tried to look away, but Jagun Ghen held him firm.
“Men … duarthis,” said the eladrin. “Menduarthis. Of Isan Meidan.”
“Of Isan Meidan?” Jagun Ghen chuckled. “I think not. You dwelled there long enough, no doubt. But still you try to hide lies behind a little truth. Yes?”