“Well, this is unexpected,” said the gnome. “I thought I wouldn’t be summoned until the evening meal. Pray tell, what can I do for you?”
“Do not insult us by acting innocent,” said Quardov.
A flash of panic flew from Praxle’s heart to his loins, but he quickly mastered the emotion. Had his bribe to Quardov somehow backfired? Had they heard Jeffers’s whetstone? “I’m sure I don’t know what you’re insinuating,” he said, carefully moderating his voice for that perfect balance of respectful caution and carefree innocence. He slid his hands into his pants pockets.
Quardov smirked. “You thought these people were just a bunch of Aundairian countryside simpletons, ignorant of the duplicity that festers in the big cities. You were wrong.”
“I’m afraid I still don’t understand,” said Praxle. He pulled his left hand from his pocket. His mind raced. Did they know he’d glamered himself to appear like Quardov?
“Your visit here has proven to be more than academic,” said Quardov.
Praxle spread his arms wide—helplessly, innocently. With this gesture, his left hand was concealed from view behind the door, and he flicked a small potion to Jeffers, who stood motionless in the corner.
Obviously annoyed at Praxle’s continued protestations, the prelate stamped his foot, “You came here to steal the Thrane Sphere!” he yelled. “And by the Five Nations, you will burn for your blasphemy!”
The suddenness and ferocity of the accusation caused Praxle’s face to blanch. “What’s the—?”
“Don’t even try such a tactic with me!” bellowed Quardov, the veins bulging out beneath his pale skin. He pointed a finger atremble with ire. “Arrest him! Arrest them both!”
The black-garbed monks leaped past Quardov and into the room. Two of them seized Praxle and ratcheted his arms into joint locks. He struggled, but one of them planted a thumb at the base of his ear and pressed, bringing such pain that the gnome relented.
The other four fanned out. One of them slammed the door fully open, but the room was otherwise empty.
“Where’s your companion?” asked one of the monks.
“I sent my domestic out to collect some local flora and fauna,” said Praxle. “The university wants samples of the oddities found here.”
Quardov glided into the room. He picked up the bulls-eye lantern that Jeffers had set on the side table and held it out accusingly. One of the monks offered Quardov the newly-honed serrated sword from the luggage case. Quardov ran a finger along the edge, clucking his tongue, then pulled his hand back and rubbed the whetting oil between his fingers.
“And these?” he asked. “Are these the tools you use to collect samples of grass, Professor d’Sivis?” He handed the blade back to the monk, then placed his hand on the lens of the lantern, “And this lantern is still warm. Is it really that much of a challenge to find weeds around here?”
“I can explain,” said Praxle.
“There’s no need to explain.” Quardov gestured, and one of the monks holding Praxle pressed his thumb into the soft spot behind the gnome’s ear again.
Praxle hissed in pain.
“You come here and verify for yourself the existence of the Thrane Sphere by its effects upon this landscape,” said Quardov, casting a dark look at Keiftal. “You impersonate me by means of illusion to discover where the Sphere is secreted. Oh, yes, little gnome, that came to light once your colleagues committed their crime. Then you use your scholarly ploy to press me for details on our past so that you can learn about the catacombs. Once you have these details, you send your compatriots to recover the Sphere while you linger here playing the innocent historian.” Quardov stepped over to Praxle and bent down to look him square in the eyes. “It was a very good plot. Indeed it was. Unfortunately for you, your compatriots were spotted. I am pleased to tell you that some are dead. And now you will tell us where the rest of them went.”
Quardov stood and began to leave the room.
“But there’s nothing to tell,” protested Praxle. “We’ve been in the monastery all day!”
Quardov halted in the doorway and turned his head. “You’ve been in the monastery all day? Why, dear gnome, I thought you sent your companion out for samples.”
Praxle tried to think of an answer—any answer—but failed.
6
Prayers Answered
Quardov led a procession through the heart of the monastery and across the courtyard to a little-used outbuilding. As they entered, a scruffy tomcat rounded the corner. It arched its back and hissed at Quardov, then stopped, sat, and watched the procession pass before scampering off.
The black-clad monks followed Quardov into the building. Two of them held Praxle’s arms in debilitating joint locks. The gnome dared not struggle. Two more moved over to iron manacles dangling from a massive beam in the ceiling. They opened the cuffs and clamped them around Praxle’s small wrists.
The cuffs were built for a human frame. They hung just low enough so that Praxle’s feet could still touch the floor. His arms, however, extended straight into the air, with his shoulders pressing on his ears.
“Find out everything he knows,” said Quardov. “Leave no marks.”
“My reverence,” said one of the monks, flexing his fingers, “we never leave marks.”
Quardov ignored the comment and turned to leave, Keiftal following after him.
As they crossed the courtyard, Keiftal struggled to keep even with the prelate. “Would you like to speak to Teron, now, my reverence?” he asked, peering at Quardov’s face.
Quardov drew up short, his lip curled in loathing. “Teron? Why is he still here?”
“What would you have us do with him, prelate?” asked Keiftal.
“I don’t know,” said Quardov. He fluttered one hand in vexation, “Send him home.”
“This is his home,” said Keiftal. “He was just a lad when he first arrived. We raised him, taught him, trained him in the ways—”
Quardov raised one hand. “I know,” he said. “Do not presume to remind me.”
“Then why do you wish us to send him away? He is the last of—”
“I know he’s the last, and damn his soul, he lingers so!”
“He is—”
“He is a freak!”
Keiftal backed away. “Wh—what do you mean?”
Quardov stabbed one accusing finger in the direction of the monastery. “Anyone who went through that … that training so easily is not someone who is in full possession of his faculties! He—” Quardov paused. “He shouldn’t exist. I don’t trust him, nor would I trust any of his kind.”
Keiftal nodded. “As you wish, my reverence, but I still suggest you speak with him. He might offer some additional insight into the gnome’s fellow conspirators.”
Quardov clenched his teeth. “You speak too loudly, Keiftal,” he said. “You have ever since the first day you brought that damnable Sphere to me.”
Teron groaned. The light tormented his eyes and gouged its way into his mind. His restless legs kicked weakly, pulling the sheet from his body, and his stomach felt like a single knot of rope.
He felt a cold cloth placed on his forehead, then a second cloth, sodden with water, placed at his lips. He gathered his wits and sucked on the cloth. An unseen hand took it and replaced it again. Teron drank more, then managed to squeeze out the word, “Enough.”
He forced his breathing and heartbeat to become regular. He started clenching and unclenching his fists in a slow cycle, willing his body to cooperate.
A deep breath, and then he stretched, first his arms, then his shoulders, then his torso—
“Hsst!” Two biting pains in his sides brought him fully to consciousness.
“I wouldn’t do that, brother,” said his attendant.
“You could have … told me earlier,” managed Teron.
“I didn’t know you’d forgotten it.”
Teron laughed, a single chuckle more like a cough than a true laugh. “I didn’t know either,” he said. “What happened?”