The two entered, the second one far taller than normal for one of the Horde, head inclined low even though the ceiling was over eight feet from the deck.
Richard gazed at him warily. He was thin, almost cadaverous for a Bantag, eyes a strange pale blue, a rarity amongst that race. His gaze was penetrating, cutting directly into the soul.
Richard knew that some were able to do this. The terrifying Tamuka, the fallen Qar Qarth of the Merki, had been one, although those with the power usually stood behind a Qarth or even the Qar Qarth as their adviser.
This one, he sensed, had cultivated the ability to see within beyond anything the Hordes of the north knew or comprehended.
As the blue-eyed one gazed at him, Richard fought to show indifference; the look of a slave who was beyond caring and beyond fear.
There was the flicker of a smile, and then he turned to look at Sean.
Richard watched the silent interplay. Sean gasped for breath, eyes drooping. Again the flicker of a smile.
The blue-eyed one said something unintelligible, and his companion pulled a drinking flask out from under his robe, uncorked it, and held it so that Richard could drink.
He gulped it down. The taste was strange, tinged with a slight bitterness, like a strong herb. The flask was withdrawn and offered to Sean, who drank as well.
The second one drew back and then left the cabin. At first Richard felt some of his strength returning, but then he sensed something else, a strange drifting. The pain was still there, but somehow he felt as if he were floating.
The blue-eyed one smiled.
“Yes, it was drugged.”
Richard was startled. The words were in English.
“I seek answers to a few questions. That is all, and then this will end.”
Richard wanted to make a defiant reply, but decided that silence was still the best path.
“Just end it,” Sean cried, his voice near to breaking.
“It will end.” His attention turned to focus on Sean. “Tell me, are you the son of Senator O’Donald of the Republic.”
Richard could not help but betray his shock. The blueeyed one smiled. “We know quite a bit about you.” As he spoke he snapped his fingers.
A man came through the door, a human wearing a white robe, the same as the blue-eyed one. And yet something about him made Richard uneasy, even frightened. The man was tall, matching Richard’s height, but beneath the robe he could sense a physique that was perfection. The man moved catlike. There seemed to be a coiled and deadly power to him, his gaze cool, almost mocking.
“Years ago I sent a dozen like Machu here north, to learn a few things. Your Yankee language was one of the things he returned with. My Shiv learn such things quickly.”
“Shiv?” Sean asked.
He smiled. “My name is Hazin, and you, Sean O’Donald, will learn soon enough who the Shiv truly are.”
“I doubt that,” Richard snapped.
The gaze turned, fixing on him. Yet again he felt the sense of uncovering, of staring within.
At a subtle gesture, Machu stepped forward. The back-handed blow was delivered in almost a casual manner, but the force of it stunned Richard. For a moment he thought his jaw had been shattered, and he gagged on the blood, which nearly choked him.
The man turned on Sean, and the beating began. Within less than a minute O’Donald was sobbing, begging for it to stop. The whole time Hazin ignored Sean, all attention focused on Richard.
He could feel the drug taking hold, the strange floating, the sudden awareness of the finest nuances of the narrow universe of the cabin, the way motes of dust floated, the scent of salt air drifting in, such a pleasant relief washing away the fetid stench.
He heard the sharp rasping snick of a knife being drawn, and the Shiv held it up before Sean’s eyes. As Sean rocked back and forth, suspended from his chains, the Shiv remained motionless, the point of the blade raised so that with each forward swing it barely touched Sean’s skin, drawing blood from his arms and chest.
Hazin, meanwhile, continued to stare at Richard.
Not you, he seemed to whisper. The other one is the one I know will break.
“What is it you want?” Richard gasped.
“You know,” Hazin whispered.
“No, I don’t.”
Sean was crying, beginning to beg. Richard froze, closing his eyes, trying to block out the sound, and yet still he felt as if Hazin was looking at him, probing within, seeking for something that could not be described by words.
“No, not that, God no.”
Richard opened his eyes and saw with horror that the Shiv had lowered his blade and was preparing to make the most cruel of cuts with it.
Sean was shaking his head back and forth, feebly kicking, his cries drawn out into a long pitiful moan.
Richard looked back at Hazin. “Stop it,” he gasped. “I’ll tell you what you want, just leave him alone.”
“No, you would lie, Cromwell. You would try to save your friend, but still you would lie.”
“I’ll tell you anything,” Sean begged, “just not that.”
Richard lowered his head, and in spite of himself tears welled up. He had never had room for pity in his life. There was no room for pity in slavery, it could only lead to death. Yet now he felt it for a comrade who had been pushed beyond the limits of endurance. He wondered as well if he would have broken with such a threat. He wondered if Hazin, who somehow seemed to be inside his very thoughts, knew the answer to that question.
He heard the snick of a lock opening. The Shiv had unsnapped one of the manacles holding Sean and then unlocked the other. O’Donald fell to the deck, sagging down onto his knees. The Shiv effortlessly picked him up and carried him out of the room.
But Hazin did not follow. Another Shiv came in, this one almost identical to the first. He had the same muscular build, the same sharklike eyes devoid of emotion. Richard wondered if the torture was to continue.
Instead there was a blessed relief as the manacles around his wrists were unfastened. He tried to remain on his feet as he dropped to the deck, but his knees gave way. The Shiv pulled him back up and roughly tossed a cloak over his shoulders, covering his nakedness, then pointed at the door.
Legs wobbly, Richard did as ordered. It was difficult to walk. The pain was beginning to float away, replaced by a strange warmth, and yet his mind still seemed focused on his awareness of Hazin.
Stepping into the sunlight, he breathed deeply. The ship was strange, its lines sleeker than the Gettysburg, no masts; its deck painted a dull gray and scorched here and there with battle damage. Part of the deck forward had been split apart.
The ocean was a vast expanse of a deep, lush blue, sparkling with whitecaps driven before a warm, tropical breeze. He felt, at that moment, as if it were the most beautiful experience he had ever known-the ocean, the scent of the wind, the rocking of the ship beneath his feet as it plowed through the gently rolling sea.
Hazin stepped past him, motioning to him to follow, and Richard went up a ladder and through an open door. The light inside was muted. What appeared to be an altar of black stone rose at the far end of the room, which was filled with the sweet scent of incense.
Silk curtains over the portholes were drawn shut, but a soft, diffused light filtered through, giving the room a gentle, comfortable feel Hazin motioned to a chair set by a table. On it was an open decanter and a single crystal goblet beside it.
“Have something to drink. Cromwell.”
“Is it drugged as well?”
Hazin smiled. “Of course. You can refuse, but in the end thirst will compel you, and you will drink. So why endure the wait?”
Richard looked at the decanter and hesitated.