Someone asked a question, but it meant nothing to Praxle. He would have answered, but he couldn’t. His head hung to the rear, forcing his mouth open, and now it was gone dry. Or maybe it had been the screaming that did it. He raised his head just enough to try to swallow, to get some fluid back in his parched mouth. He failed at that but chanced to see his arms stretched before him. They were trying to dive, but the rafters pulled them away.
He heard words: “You’ve pushed him too far. He’s incoherent.” He was uncertain what the words meant, but someone was banished away. Praxle hoped that didn’t mean that he’d failed the rafters somehow and that more pain was coming. He felt a hand grab his hair and pull his head erect, then someone dumped a small pail of water over his head. Praxle gasped, and then his tongue licked up all the water that was within reach. Another half pail of water quickly followed, and Praxle was aware enough to capture a mouthful or two. With that, he was able to rouse himself and clear his mind.
His wrists were chafed where the manacles were clamped, and his shoulders and elbows ached from supporting the weight of his body. His knees quivered from weakness, but he forced himself to stand nonetheless—partially to relieve the pain in his wrists but more so to make it easier to breathe. His head weaved back and forth as if it were too heavy for his neck, which, truth be told, it was.
The room was empty, save for one black-clad monk. The interrogator stood in front of Praxle, appraising him with a critical eye and a passionless face. He caught Praxle’s gaze, and seeing that the spark of sanity had returned, he bowed his head slightly. “I apologize if this interrogation is being done in an unprofessional manner,” he said. “Uses such as this are not our primary reason for learning pressure points. Thus we are not taught how to employ them in these situations. I fear we have taken more of your time than is necessary, yet there is much time still to be spent here. For that I am sorry, but I have more I must learn from you.”
“I’ve told you all I know,” said Praxle.
The monk smiled. “It would take a lifetime for you to tell me all you know,” he said. “But in this case, I will spare you the punishment for lying to me.”
“There’s nothing else you can learn from me … about … whatever happened here.”
“So you say. But I have been directed to find out for myself if that is true. Shall we continue?”
“I’d rather not,” said Praxle.
“Acquiescence would have been easier for both of us,” said the monk, “It would have given you the illusion of influence, and me the illusion of cooperation. Now we have neither.” He reached out and took Praxle by the elbows, pressing his thumbs onto the vulnerable nerves.
As Praxle stopped writhing, he felt a light triple tap on the top of his head. He looked up, but saw nothing but the rafters.
The monk grabbed Praxle’s hair and pulled his head forward again. “Stay with me,” he said, “and we will finish more quickly. We would both like that, wouldn’t we?”
Praxle nodded. “Yes, we would,” he said, and started scuffing his feet back and forth across the floor. “Ask me anything. I swear I’ll answer.”
“That’s better,” said the monk—then he made a small noise like a hiccup. He looked down at the serrated steel point protruding from his ribs. He looked up at Praxle for a moment, a questioning look in his eyes, then his eyes dilated and focused on the hereafter.
Jeffers, now visible standing behind the monk, let the tip of his sword drop, and the corpse sagged to the floor.
The half-orc wiped his blade on the monk’s pants and sheathed it. Then he pulled a thin steel pick from his belt and started working on the locks of Praxle’s manacles.
“It’s about time you got here,” said Praxle.
“I took the first opportunity,” replied Jeffers.
“There was no chance yesterday?”
“It’s only been two hours, master,” said Jeffers. The lock of the first manacle clicked, and Jeffers freed Praxle’s right wrist. “This was the first time since you’ve been captured that there was only one monk to overcome.”
“I bought a bodyguard who’s afraid of two unarmed monks?”
Jeffers shrugged. “They are very skilled in weaponless combat. I have little experience facing such techniques. While I would be certain to kill one, I could not be positive of my defeating the other in a fair fight.”
Praxle threw Jeffers a weary and angry look. “I hire you to keep me safe. If you die, I can always buy another half-orc.”
“You hire me to keep you alive, master,” responded Jeffers. “Were I to die, I could not free you. And where, then, would you buy yourself another chance to escape?”
Praxle considered this, then collapsed to the floor when Jeffers opened the second manacle.
“Time to go, master,” said Jeffers. “I’ve made some preparations.” He slung Praxle over one shoulder, stepped to the doorway, looked out, then sprinted out the door and around to the back side of the outbuilding. He adjusted Praxle’s position to one that Praxle found even more painful, then sprinted again.
The gnome bounced along on the half-orc’s shoulder, too exhausted to resist or protest. The sun-washed red grass and ruins swooped by beneath the gnome’s exhausted gaze, then Jeffers hauled him into a building. The stable, by the earthy smell of it.
Praxle heard Jeffers open a latch, then found himself unceremoniously dumped onto a wooden floor. He banged his head as he landed, but the pain was nothing compared to what he had recently experienced, and he took no particular notice.
For a blissful moment, he was motionless. Then he heard Jeffers whip some horses into motion, and the carriage lurched forward, rolling Praxle under the bench. He tried to rise but banged his head. He managed to stabilize his position as the carriage accelerated, but soon the horses were sprinting down a little-used cart track at full speed, and Praxle found himself unable to climb out from his spot.
In the wake of his torture, he wanted nothing else but to relax, yet he couldn’t. The carriage rattled and jolted, and the door swung open and shut, banging loudly and bathing Praxle in either bright sunlight or near-total darkness. Praxle could not even rest his head on the bucking floorboards, nor raise it too high lest he knock it against the bench seat above his head, over and over.
His head lolled in resignation. “Jeffers,” he said, his weak voice buried by the din, “I am docking your pay.”
7
Methods of Persuasion
Teron leaned against the windowsill of the infirmary, looking to west, at the golden hues of the sunset. The crescent horns of Eyre, Aryth, and Sypheros sailed above the horizon, reminding Teron of a stack of bowls or hands cupped in meditation.
He turned away from the view as he heard someone enter the room. Keiftal shuffled in, shutting the door behind him. He saw Teron, and a broad, happy smile broke across his aged face. “It is good to see you up and about, my boy,” he said, not quite meeting Teron’s eyes. “Are you feeling well?”
Teron grinned in spite of himself. Keiftal’s wrinkles, his slurred and creaky voice, and his slightly stooped frame all stood in stark contrast to the pure, almost childlike joy that shone from his countenance. “I feel hale, master, thank you for asking,” he said, leaning against the windowsill. He ran one hand down his abdomen, stopping so that his fingers could investigate a fresh pink scar that puckered his skin. “But I must ask: what happened? Was I struck down? Poisoned? Did I have the ague? I remember fragments, then …”
Keiftal shook his head, sadness darkening his features, “No, my boy. You were very badly wounded, and … well, Prelate Quardov prayed over you for the intercession of the Sovereign Host. You were healed by divine providence.”
Teron blinked several times in surprise. “Prelate Quardov? Prayed for me?”
Keiftal nodded.