“You,” the shorter priest said, “are not a god, and therefore our Master has dominion over you—or would you dispute that?”
Sweat ran into her eyes, stinging. Paks gasped, “I am Gird’s paladin—your slavemaster has no dominion over me.”
“Gird is not helping you now, paladin,” sneered the priest. “Nor will you hold a sword again, if we disjoint both shoulders and leave them so.”
“Nor is that the limit of our skill,” said the other. “Trussed as you are, we can do anything—and you cannot prevent it.”
Paks answered nothing; she could not breathe evenly. Pain wracked her shoulders and back; she hardly felt the burns and welts that had hurt so earlier. How long had it been? How much more?
“I will show you,” he said. His gloved hands began to move over her body, gentle at first, in mimicry of lovemaking. The crowd laughed loudly as he exaggerated his movements for their benefit. Then his fingers probed her body, finding points that radiated spikes of pain. She could not stand it—had to writhe—could not, for the pressure on her shoulders. Soon she was panting, gasping for breath, tumbled in a roil of pain that brought back the night she’d been attacked at the inn. He stood back, then, and waited until her breathing quieted. Then he did it again. And again. The third time, she passed out.
When she came to, her arms were tied overhead to corners of the same frame, and the shorter priest was lecturing the crowd.
“—you see, you need not maim or kill—not at first. It is the skill, the knowing where to touch, and how hard. Knowing, for example, which child is a father’s favorite.” A pause; alert silence from the crowd. “Knowing how much punishment to give.” Another long silence. “But some of you would already have killed this paladin of Gird—and spoiled our Master’s pleasure by so many hours. Watch and learn—enjoy with us, the power of our Master over all mankind. Not even the hero-saints of old can save this paladin in her pain. We can do anything—anything at all—and we come to no harm, as you see. Our Master has the power—the only power. Our Master shares his mastery with his slaves, if they are obedient. You, too, can have power over even a paladin. Watch—learn—do as we say, and you can make a paladin bleed and cry out. And if a paladin falls to us, how much more easily an ordinary man, eh?”
He prowled the front of the hall, menacing, predatory, and Paks saw those in front shrink back slightly. Their eyes followed him, wary.
“What power is it you want? Is it money? We have her gold. Is it blood? We have it all—you will see it fall for our pleasure. Is it lust? You will have your chance. Is it mastery itself? You will see her cringe before us, and before those of you chosen to assist. Our Master has power—real power—and you can share that power. Everyone else is helpless in the end—helpless like this paladin. Would you have feared her once, with her big sword, her fancy armor?” His voice dripped contempt. The crowd shifted, not quite answering. “Yes, admit it! You would have feared her, up there on the street—yes you would, unworthy slaves! You might have cringed from her—but look now. There she hangs, bound and helpless. What she has, she has because we left it to her.” He waved an arm back at Paks, and some eyes shifted to meet hers and as quickly shifted away.
“You—you there in the third row—you could blind her, couldn’t you? And you—you could cut off her ears. Who would stop you but our Master? Who could punish you but our Master? Who is worthy of your service but—” he paused; the answer came quickly from the crowd:
“Master—Master—Master.” The faces Paks could see were tight with fear, not so avid for the spectacle as before. She felt a surge of pity for them.
“Yes. Our Master: Liart the strong. You must never say his name, unworthy slaves, until you come to his altar to swear your souls to him forever. But you know who he is.” He raised his hand, fist clenched.
“The Master,” came the response.
The priests noticed her open eyes and came to her again. She met their gaze evenly.
“And you are still with us, little paladin?” asked the taller.
“The High Lord is still with us all,” she said. Someone in the crowd hooted, and others laughed. The shorter priest reached out and stroked her sides.
“He hasn’t done well by you, with these scars,” he said. “I’d almost think you’d been given to our Master already.”
“No,” said Paks recklessly, “that was Achrya’s work.”
He slammed his fist into her belly. “Don’t say that name aloud, scum.”
Paks gasped for breath. “You—fear—her?”
Again a blow that took her breath away, and another to her face. One of the priests took up the barbed whip they had used on the boy, and showed it to her. “This will teach you something of our Master; he is bolder than that webspinner.” He slashed it across her body, then her legs, and walked behind her. Five rapid blows split the skin of her back; hot blood sheeted down, dripping from her legs. Paks clenched her jaw against the fiery pain. Before it dulled, they had brought the next torment, a heated chain held carefully in tongs. First around her waist—then each thigh in turn. Paks could smell the charred skin, her charred skin.
Again the crowd was invited up, in groups, to participate. Now the men were urged to arouse themselves. “Not yet,” the priest said, to those fumbling at their trousers. “Wait for that—but go on and enjoy what you can.” They traced her scars and the whip welts with their fingers, poked and prodded every orifice. She saw one man lick his finger after wiping it in her blood. The thought of it made her sick. The priests laughed. “Good, eh? It’s blood like any other—taste it.” Several others did the same thing. Paks thought briefly of the many soldiers she had killed—the blood she had shed—but she had never tasted their blood, never seen soldiers as wantonly cruel. Yet some, she could tell, were more frightened than eager: they took no pleasure in it, their eyes downcast, their faces tense. It seemed a long time before the priests ordered the crowd back to their places.
The taller priest held up an iron that had been heating in the brazier, and flourished it.
“Now that you carry Liart’s brand, we must do worse than threaten your beauty. But if we decorate you with deep burns here—” He touched the inside of her thigh. Pain flared along her leg. “—you might never ride or walk again.” She could not tell how bad the burn was; her whole leg felt afire.
“There are other ways,” said the shorter one, conversationally. “If we show you all of them, I fear you will not be able to appreciate the artistry involved. Perhaps we should demonstrate—” and he signalled to the guards. Paks did not notice where they went. Soon they were back, dragging with them a girl Paks had never seen. She looked to be in her mid-teens, someone’s servant by her clothes. She was gagged and bound, her eyes wild; as soon as the tall priest ripped the gag roughly away, she screamed.
“Shut up!” He slapped her face. “If you scream again, I’ll—” He did not finish the threat; she choked off her cries, and watched him, eyes streaming with tears. He turned to Paks. “From time to time we find our sacrifices in the streets—this girl loitered in an alley, and as we had need, we—borrowed her.” As he spoke, the girl turned her head and saw Paks; her eyes seemed to bulge from her face in panic, and she struggled wildly. One of the guards twisted her arm, and she subsided. “Now, paladin, let me offer another bargain.”
Paks said nothing.
“You are bound to endure five days and nights—let us say, five days and four nights, now—of our Master’s pleasure, whatever comes. But if you will agree that our Master has dominion over all, then we need not waste this girl’s limbs showing you the range of our skill. If, however, you still insist that your gods—whatever you name them—are more powerful, then we must teach you your weakness through her. Did you not name Gird protector of the helpless—and you claim to be his paladin? Yes—but you, a paladin of that so-called protector of the helpless, you cannot save this girl from anything, except by our Master’s name.”