Tariq followed orders. “What’s wrong with her?” he asked.
Hamzah shook his head and shrugged, then handed Del over to another man. “Not ours to worry about. Take her inside to the reception room. Then we’ll haul the great and famous Sandtiger down from his horse.”
I called Hamzah every foul name I could think of. In the midst of it they unlocked the neck chain, the belly chain, and I was able to sit up for the first time in hours. And I nearly cried out because of the pain in my abdomen. Too soon going upright when I’d been down for so long, and the pommel had indeed done some damage. I just hoped it was the kind that could repair itself. No wonder Del was bleeding!
They unlocked the two long chains from me, but I remained shackled at wrists and ankles. I bent over slightly, trying to undo the cramping of my gut. I wasn’t sure shackles were necessary. I didn’t think I could mount any kind of escape.
I stood there half bent, breathing noisily through clenched teeth. “Get me in there. I want to see Del.”
Hamzah gave orders to the others to tend the horses. Then he took one elbow as Tariq took the other, and pushed me toward the entrance. Hoolies, but it hurt to move. And it wasn’t particularly helpful when the chain between my ankles barely had enough slack for me to approximate walking. Though that certainly didn’t affect how Hamzah and Tariq handled me. They probably would find it a good joke if I tripped and fell face-first on the stones.
Into the palace, as beautiful as I recalled. I was taken through several rooms and at last arrived in what was, apparently, the large reception room. And I saw Del, and I saw Umir.
She lay curled on her side upon tiles, limbs still contained by shackles and chains. Her legs were drawn up to her belly. Umir, standing over her, was the picture of horrified distaste.
I tried to throw off Tariq and Hamzah. They hung on. “Let me go to her!”
Umir looked at me. Then he nodded to both men. I nearly fell as I crossed the floor to Del, but managed to kneel down beside her, chains and shackles clashing. Hoolies, but she looked bad.
“Del? Bascha?” Despite the chains, I grabbed her wrists. “Bascha?”
She opened her eyes. Pain glazed them. “I’m sorry.” Her voice was so weak as to be nearly a whisper.
“Sorry! Bascha, what on earth—”
“I’ve lost it,” she said.
“Lost—” And all the hair stood up on my skin. A chill ran through my body. I looked at Umir. “Get her help,” I told him. Umir kept a healer on his premises. “Now. She’s losing a baby!”
Umir’s expression as he stared at Del was nothing less than sheer disgust. It made me so furious that I pushed myself up. But between the chains and Tariq and Hamzah, who moved to catch me, I could not throw myself at him as I wished.
“If you want me to open that thrice-cursed book, you’ll get her help. Right now!”
Umir made a motion, and I saw his steward come forward. “See to it,” Umir said.
I stood there in chains, held in place by Hamzah and Tariq, and watched as slaves came, collected Del, and carried her away. I had no idea where she was going. But I didn’t intend to let her go there alone. “Until she’s recovered, the book will remained locked,” I said coldly. “You’ll get no magic from me.”
Umir examined me. He was Southron-dark, grey-eyed, and always clad in the richest of fabrics. His hands were elegant. He cared little for women, little for men. All he wanted was to build his collection. Apparently that was enough for his needs.
“Let me go to her,” I said.
Umir smiled. “I think not.” And he told Hamzah and Tariq where to take me.
Chapter 38
I WAS FAIRLY CERTAIN I’D BEEN IN THE ROOM BEFORE. If not, in one exactly like it. Same small, squared windows high in the wall; same door with hinges and lock on the outside, a lip over the jamb so nothing could be inserted; and a wooden cot. A nightcrock.
Tariq, again, shut one hand very tightly into my harness and let the flesh over my kidney once again make an acquaintance with his oh-so-delicate knife. Hamzah squatted, unlocked the ankle shackles. Even as he did so, Tariq pressed the knife point slightly more deeply. I knew very well what he was doing. While the repeated wounds were nothing more than slices, they were also promises. Umir’s men wanted no surprises from me as they took off the shackles.
Next, the wrists. This time Tariq didn’t use the knife. Instead, a knuckled punch struck me hard right where the knife had been, immediately over my kidney. I arched backward, fighting the pain, and Hamzah took off the wrist shackles before I could do anything. As he and Tariq let go of me, as they went out the door, chains and shackles clanking, the best I could do was fall to hands and knees. No fight from me.
For some time I knelt on the floor, willing the pain away. Slowly I got to my feet. A burst of pain slammed me in the kidney and all the muscles tightened. I swore, gingerly tried to stretch. But not such a good idea.
I strung together some of the vilest curses I could think of or invent, and walked carefully to the cot. I sat down. Waited for the worst of the pain to pass. Once most of it did, I stood up again. I threw the cot over onto its side. Sat down on one of the topmost wooden legs, and bounced. Twice, and the leg cracked right off the frame.
On my most recent visit a couple of years ago, I’d used a broken cot leg as a sparring blade, to make myself fit again. This time I’d employ it as something else.
I stepped to the door. Knocked gently on it to measure the thickness, the sound. Then I began bashing the leg into the door over and over again.
The exercise would not harm or open the door on its own, but it would make it impossible to ignore me. And then a person would open the door.
Bash—bash—bash—
Bash—bash—bash—
After a few more bashes the leg cracked lengthwise and fell apart in my hands. I tossed the pieces aside. Went back to the cot. Broke another leg off it, returned to the door.
Bash—bash—bash—
My lower back hurt like hoolies with the exertion so soon after a kidney punch. I ignored it by bashing the leg against the door all the harder.
I heard voices outside. I stopped bashing long enough to set my face against the door. I shouted. “I can do this all night!” Bash— “Really I can.” Bash—
“Stop!” someone shouted from the other side of the door.
Bash—bash—
“My master says to ask what you want! Other than your freedom, of course!”
Oddly, that made me grin. Bash—bash—bash—
“STOP!”
I stopped. “Take me to Del. That’s all I want. Take me to her.”
Silence.
“All right,” I called. “Here I go…”
“STOP! STOP!” The tone sounded frenzied. “I’ll ask my master!”
I waited until it was likely he’d gone. I rested a couple of minutes, panting, then began again.
Bash—bash—bash—
The master apparently did give permission for me to be moved to wherever Del was because not long after my request, the door lock rattled. I knew how the game was played; I’d played it here before. I walked to the far wall, tossed the cot leg aside, and waited peacefully.
Hamzah first. Tariq next. Shackles and chains.
“Are you his favorites?” I asked. “Does he have you do any additional services for him other than catching people? You know—services.”