“Kill Jean Tannen.”
Locke paused at the Falconer’s feet and turned his head slowly to stare at Jean. One of the big man’s eyes was open, unblinking; there was real terror there. Jean’s lips quivered uselessly, trying to form words.
Locke pushed himself up and raised the hatchet; he bellowed wordlessly.
He jabbed up with the heavy ball of the hatchet; the blow struck home right between the Falconer’s legs. The silver thread and the parchment fluttered from the Bondsmage’s hands as he gasped and fell forward, clutching at his groin.
Locke whirled to his right, expecting instant attack from the scorpion hawk, but to his surprise the bird had fallen from its perch and was writhing on the hovel floor, wings beating uselessly at the air, a series of choked half screeches issuing from its beak.
Locke smiled the cruelest smile he’d ever worn in his entire life as he rose to his feet.
“It’s like that, is it?” He grinned fiercely at the Bondsmage as he slowly raised the hatchet, ball-side down. “You see what she sees; each of you feels what the other feels?”
The words brought him a warm sense of exultation, but they nearly cost him the fight; the Falconer managed to find concentration enough to utter one syllable and curl his fingers into claws. Locke gasped and staggered back, nearly dropping the hatchet. It felt as though a hot dagger had been shoved through both of his kidneys; the sizzling pain made it impossible to act, or even to think.
The Falconer attempted to stand up, but Jean Tannen suddenly rolled toward him and reached up, grabbing him by the lapels. The big man yanked hard, and the Falconer crashed back down, forehead-first, against the floor of the hovel. The pain in Locke’s guts vanished, and Vestris screeched once again from the floor beside his feet. He wasted no further time.
He whipped the hatchet down in a hammer-blow, breaking Vestris’ left wing with a dry crack.
The Falconer screamed and writhed, flailing hard enough to briefly break free from Jean’s grasp. He clutched at his left arm and hollered, his eyes wide with shock. Locke kicked him in the face, hard, and the Bondsmage rolled over in the dust, spitting up the blood that was suddenly running from his nose.
“Just one question, you arrogant fucking cocksucker,” said Locke. “I’ll grant the Lamora part is easy to spot; the truth is, I didn’t know about the apt translation when I took the name. I borrowed it from this old sausage dealer who was kind to me once, back in Catchfire before the plague. I just liked the way it sounded.
“But what the fuck,” he said slowly, “ever gave you the idea that Locke was the first name I was actually born with?”
He raised the hatchet again, reversed it so the blade side was toward the ground, and then brought it down with all of his strength, severing Vestris’ head completely from her body.
The sound of the bird’s suddenly interrupted screech echoed and merged with the screams of the Falconer, who clutched at his head and kicked his legs wildly. His cries were pure madness, and it was a mercy to the ears of Locke and Jean when they died, and he fell sobbing into unconsciousness.
2
THE FALCONER of Karthain awoke to find himself lying spread-eagled, arms and legs out on the dusty floor of the hovel. The smell of blood was in the air-Vestris’ blood. He closed his eyes and began to weep.
“He is secure, Master Lamora,” said Ibelius. When the dog-leech had awoken from whatever spell the Bondsmage had flung at him, he’d been only too eager to help tie the Karthani down. He and Jean had scavenged some metal stakes from the other side of the structure; these were pounded into the floor, and the Bondsmage was lashed to them by long strips of bedding, tied tight around his wrists and ankles. Smaller strips had been tied around his fingers and had been used to pad between them, immobilizing them.
“Good,” said Locke.
Jean Tannen sat on the sleeping pallet, looking down at the Bondsmage with dull, deeply shadowed eyes. Locke stood at the sorceror’s feet, staring down at him with undisguised loathing.
A small oil fire burned in a glass jar; Ibelius crouched beside it, slowly heating a dagger over it. The thin brown smoke curled up toward the ceiling.
“You are fools,” said the Falconer between sobs, “if you think to kill me. My brethren will take satisfaction; think on the consequences.”
“I’m not going to kill you,” said Locke. “I’m going to play a little game I like to call ‘scream in pain until you answer my fucking questions.’”
“Do what you will” said the Falconer. “The code of my order forbids me to betray my client.”
“Oh, you’re not working for your client anymore, asshole,” said Locke. “You’re not working for your client ever again.”
“It’s ready, Master Lamora,” said Ibelius.
The Bondsmage craned his neck to stare over at Ibelius. He swallowed and licked his lips, his wet, bloodshot eyes darting around the room.
“What’s the matter?” Locke reached out and carefully took the dagger from the dog-leech’s hand; its blade glowed red. “Afraid of fire? Why ever should that be?” Locke grinned, an expression utterly without humor.
“Fire’s the only thing that’s going to keep you from bleeding to death.”
Jean rose from the sleeping pallet and knelt on the Falconer’s left arm. He pressed it down at the wrist, and Locke slowly came over to stand beside him, hatchet in one hand and glowing knife in the other.
“I heartily approve, in theory,” said Ibelius, “but in practice I believe I shall…absent myself.”
“By all means, Master Ibelius,” said Locke.
The curtain swished, and the dog-leech was gone.
“Now,” said Locke, “I can accept that it would be a bad idea to kill you. But when I finally let you slink back to Karthain, you’re going as an object lesson. You’re going to remind your pampered, twisted, arrogant fucking brethren about what might happen when they fuck with someone’s friends in Camorr.”
The blade of Jean’s hatchet whistled down, severing the Bondsmage’s little finger of his left hand. The Falconer screamed.
“That’s Nazca,” said Locke. “Remember Nazca?”
He swung down again; the ring finger of the left hand rolled in the dirt, and blood spurted.
“That’s Calo,” said Locke.
Another swing, and the middle finger was gone. The Falconer writhed and pulled at his bonds, whipping his head from side to side in agony.
“Galdo, too. Are these names familiar, Master Bondsmage? These little footnotes to your fucking contract? They were awfully real to me. Now this finger coming up-this one’s Bug. Actually, Bug probably should have been the little finger, but what the hell.” The hatchet fell again; the index finger of the Falconer’s left hand joined its brethren in bloody exile.
“Now the rest,” said Locke, “the rest of your fingers and both of your thumbs, those are for me and Jean.”
3
IT WAS tedious work; they had to reheat the dagger several times to cauterize all the wounds. The Falconer was quivering with pain by the time they’d finished; his eyes were closed and his teeth clenched. The air in the enclosed room stank of burnt flesh and scalded blood.
“Now,” said Locke, sitting on the Falconer’s chest. “Now it’s time to talk.”
“I cannot,” whispered the Bondsmage. “I cannot…betray my client’s secrets.”
“You no longer have a client,” said Locke. “You no longer serve Capa Raza; he hired a Bondsmage, not a fingerless freak with a dead bird for a best friend. When I removed your fingers, I removed your obligations to Raza. At least, that’s the way I see it.”