The torturer rose immediately. Grandly, Bhakir waved him back, indicating he should finish his task. He strode over to the weeping heap that had once been a proud woman and kicked her soundly at the base of her spine.
Jemma screamed and flailed. Bhakir waited calmly for her cries to subside, then said, "All you need to do is cooperate. It's not that much to ask."
An incoherent mumbling was his response. He sighed. 'This isn't working."
The torturer, a bulky man stripped to the waist, nodded. Sweat from his exertions gleamed on his torso. "I only hope my lord finds no fault with the methods."
"Good heavens, you've more than proved yourself on past occasions, Garith," Bhakir hastened to reassure him. "You're limited in this one, unfortunately. I can't give you the free rein to which you are accustomed. No, we just have to think of something else."
"How about a variation of pressing?" volunteered Garith, as they both stood gazing at the whimpering, bloody woman. Pressing was a particularly effective form of coercion. Victims were tied faceup and arched upwards, and one by one, stones were placed on their torso, eventually crushing them. "She has muttered about her joints. Anything I've done to them has produced very positive results. It would be very painful, but not necessarily destructive."
Bhakir nodded slowly. "I see what you mean. It sounds like a good suggestion. Here, let me assist you."
Jemma lifted her head as they approached, sensing a progression in her torment, and cried out, "Nay, my lords, have mercy! I am an old woman! Please!"
"Jemma," said Bhakir in a tired, firm voice, as if he were speaking to an errant child, "I have told you what you need to do if you wish to stop this. I'd much rather you cooperate. Garith's talents are very costly." The two men exchanged a chuckle.
The old Healer closed her eyes, sinking into herself. She fell silent.
Bhakir sighed. "As you wish, old woman." Garith jerked her into an upright seated position. She hissed through her teeth as the caked-over welts began to bleed anew, and shrieked as they pushed her bound ankles into her crotch. Working swiftly, Garith tied a short length of rope between ankles and wrists, so that her feet would not slip away from her body.
Wordlessly, the two men began putting stones on the woman's thin legs, forcing them down to the floor. At this, Jemma screamed aloud, a terrible, rasping cry of pure agony. The men exchanged hopeful glances and continued applying stones. Mercilessly, Jemma's thighs pressed toward the floor, tearing the ligaments that bound them to her hips and fanning the fire of her inflamed joints. She wailed constantly, seeming not even to draw breath.
"Will you do what I ask?" demanded Bhakir.
She opened her eyes. For a second, it was as though she didn't see him. "I Heal," was all she said.
Bhakir growled in angry frustration. Was the whole world trying to thwart him today? First Castyll, with his impromptu speeches and lies, and now this tiny, wasted woman with a body seemingly too frail to house her rebellious spirit. Unable to contain himself, he placed one booted foot on her knee and stamped down.
Her agony was rewarding. He turned to Garith. "The spider," he said shortly.
Garith frowned. "The injuries that causes are very severe," he reminded his lord. "She might not survive them. I suggest sending her back to her cell, letting her stiffen up in solitary confinement, and then resuming. That often works better than straight torture. Something about having the time to think clearheaded about what's to come often breaks them."
He spoke calmly, with the authority of a man who knew what he was talking about. Bhakir was certain he did.
"But I am running out of time," he replied. "I need her help soon. The boy will before long be of no use, and unless I have something special-" he broke off. He had the utmost confidence in Garith's trustworthiness. The two men had worked together in this capacity for years, in secret, and Garith had never yet betrayed him. But what Bhakir was planning was of great import, and he wished to trust no one, not even his torturer, with all of the facts.
"I am running out of time," he repeated. "She must cooperate soon or she is of no use to me." Garith bowed. "You are my lord and commander, and I am sworn to obey you. But I think we might kill her."
"I'm willing to take the risk," snapped Bhakir. "Something about this particular method seems to break women swiftly."
"That is true enough," conceeded Garith. "Many who can withstand abuse to other parts of the body cannot deal with targeted attacks on their sex."
Bhakir suddenly had a dreadful mental picture of his maleness trapped within a cold, sharptoothed device, and he suppressed a shudder. He knew that he would talk in such a situation. He could only hope that Jemma would, too.
"Proceed," he said, banishing the mental image.
"As you will, my lord." Reluctantly, the torturer went to the stone wall and yanked the coverings off a previously unrevealed instrument. It appeared simple enough; nothing more than a series of bars, eight in all, affixed vertically to the wall with claws running along their lengths. Bhakir reached and yanked Jemma to her feet. She crumpled, her broken legs unable to support her, and he held her with one strong arm about her waist. With the other, he seized a clump of gray hair and yanked her head back, forcing her gaze upon the metal bars.
"This is the spider," he hissed in her ear. "This won't hurt your hands or your tongue, Healer. But this is specially designed for your sex. We'll hoist you and drag you along those eight claws. You are an old woman, but you are a woman still, and though your breasts have long since dried, I would think you'd still like to keep them intact."
Jemma did not respond. Bhakir tasted despair. Suppose the torture had unhinged her mind? He might as well toss her in the ocean right now, for all the good she would do him. He swore violently and began to half drag, half carry the injured old woman toward the torture instrument.
Garith waited, and together they lifted her, brought her unresisting, aged body up, placed her in the correct position. Cold metal came into contact with warm flesh.
Suddenly the limp body sprang to life. Jemma began to writhe and scream. "Mercy, lord! Mercy!" Bhakir, caught up in his anger, almost missed the opportunity he had been waiting for. It was Garith who paused and said, "Milord, I haven't seen her like this. Ask her again."
Startled, Bhakir paused. Jemma's body was inches away from mutilation. "You wish me to stop?" Incoherent with fear and pain, Jemma only nodded.
"Will you do as I ask? Will you help me?"
Her head lolled back, resembling a heavy blossom on a delicate stalk. Her eyes fixed on his. "One last time," she breathed, "I beg you, don't ask this of me."
Irritation roiled in Bhakir's brain, and he lifted her toward the spider again. "I care not if your withered old teats are shredded. Do you?"
She twisted in his grasp. "No, lord, no! I-gods save me! — I will do what you want, only spare me this!"
At once Garith took over, as professional now in his compassion as he was in his torture. He swung the broken, naked body into his arms and carried her gently to a corner, where he wrapped her in blankets that were there for just such an occasion.
"There, you see, Jemma?" he said gently, using her name for the first time. "All you had to do was cooperate." He glanced over at the counselor. "Tell the guards to bring hot, nourishing food, wine, and clothes suitable for her," he told Bhakir. "Give me a few hours to tend her hurts and she will do as you ask."
Bhakir wasn't so sure. He stalked over to the Healer and stared down at her. Her eyes were squeezed shut, and tears escaped from beneath her closed lids. They were not the strained sobs of a panicked, pain-filled prisoner. These were quiet tears, tears that mourned, not protested.