At the mention of his master’s name, Jeffers sprang into action. He grabbed the human’s wrist and cocked his sword arm for a thrust through the kidneys. But as he pulled the human’s arm toward him, the stranger twisted his wrist and yanked his hand through Jeffers’s grip, leaving the half-orc with nothing but sleeve. The human stepped sideways, pulling the half-orc’s arm to the right, spoiling the aim of his thrust, then he flipped his arm around and bound Jeffers’s hand with the excess sleeve. He stepped in, lifting the surprised half-orc’s arm and striking him hard in the ribs with an open palm.
The man stepped back, freeing his hands and sleeve. The half-orc opened his mouth then slumped to the floor and gasped for breath.
Praxle’s eyes widened at the brutally efficient dispatch of his bodyguard. His hands flew into motion, and he intoned the words for the quickest combat spell he knew as the human stalked across the all-too-small cabin, Praxle formed his hands into a circle, and a magical light shimmered between his fingers, glowing like a still pond at sunrise. Then the pond rippled, and a winged serpent with rainbow-hued scales slithered its way through and took flight, aglide on broad, feathered wings and baring its long, poisonous fangs.
The human spun in place as the bright serpent circled the room, its scales glinting as the lamplight played across its surface. Then, to Praxle’s extreme displeasure, the intruder stopped and faced Praxle. Praxle guided the serpent to intercede, but the human closed his eyes. Praxle drew a breath between his teeth in anger and fear. The couatl illusion was a fast-casting spell in part because it had no aural component.
Although the lightning rail had a constant background noise of crackling energy and creaking linkages, the human turned his head at the small noise Praxle made. One hand shot out and grabbed Praxle’s lapel, and before the gnome could react, the second hand clamped around his windpipe, restricting but not entirely blocking his breath.
“Praxle,” said the human, opening his eyes, “My name is Teron.” He glanced over at Jeffers, slumped in the corner, a serrated sword unattended on the floor. “I see that you were expecting me.”
Praxle shrugged as best he could with a huge hand clamped over his neck.
“Here’s what we’re going to do, Praxle,” said Teron. “First you dispel your illusion, then we’re going to sit and talk. I’m going to hold your right hand, and any time you lie to me, I’m going to break one joint of one finger. If you try to cast a spell or do anything else untoward, I’ll break your finger joints one after another until you stop. Is that clear?”
Praxle’s eyes narrowed. “You can’t do anything to me that they didn’t already do at the monastery,” he spat.
“Actually, I can,” said Teron. “The brothers used the Biting Thumb techniques to cause you pain in such a manner that it would leave no bruises, because Quardov didn’t want to create an incident between Aundair and Zilargo. I have no such qualms. In fact, I am expected to use every means necessary to accomplish my task. Therefore, you should consider how many spells you could cast, and how many scrolls you could scribe if you had fifteen dislocated joints on your right hand.”
Praxle opened his mouth to answer, but no clever remarks came. Rather than sound boorish, he closed his mouth again.
“And,” added Teron, “after such a painful trial, do you think that you could convince your masters that you didn’t spill every secret you know?”
Praxle shook his head.
“Very good. I’m glad we’re in accord. Shall we begin?”
“Do I have a choice?” asked Praxle.
“Of course you have a choice. You may choose how many fingers I break before you cooperate.”
Praxle grimaced. “That will end up being all of them if you only want to ask me where it is,” he said.
“Oh, I am very clear that the Thrane Sphere is not here with you. But … I wish to better understand the situation. First let’s talk about your visit to the monastery. Why did you come?”
Praxle looked into Teron’s eyes to gauge the young monk’s resolve. He saw nothing but a blank slate—no hatred, no firmness, nothing. He considered his options, then opened his mouth to answer. Teron immediately started flexing his little finger backward, and Praxle’s face pinched in pain. He gritted his teeth, and his eyes found the resolve behind Teron’s empty gaze.
“All right, monk!” he said. “You win. In part because you seem more reasonable than those black-hooded thugs of yours at the monastery.”
“They were just ordinary acolytes, Praxle. It’s customary to wear black when using the Biting Thumb.”
“They wore black, and they were thugs. If you have difficulty accepting that, then let me hold your little finger.”
Teron nodded. “Continue,” he said.
“You have probably been told that I stole the, er, the item you call the Thrane Sphere. Unfortunately, that is a fallacious assumption based on spurious deductions.”
Teron frowned in disappointment and started flexing the gnome’s finger again.
“Wait!” grimaced Praxle. “Hear me out, then break as many fingers as you want! If your ‘brothers’ had been that patient, I could have told you everything yesterday!”
Teron paused, looking askance at Praxle. At last he relented and released the pressure on the gnome’s finger, although he maintained the grip. Jeffers began to stir in the corner, still clawing for breath. “If you want proof,” said Praxle, desperate to be believed and to maintain the sanctity of his hand, “wait until Jeffers rises, then send him from the cabin. I will tell you everything I know, and you can question him separately. He will tell you the exact same story! I swear!”
Teron considered this for a moment then nodded. “Jeffers! First, breathe all the way out then take a deep breath in—as much as you can.” The half-orc did so. “Now get up, leave your sword, and walk to the very rear coach. Then come back here.”
The half-orc climbed to his feet, using the door latch and the walls to keep himself from falling over. He glowered at the monk with hatred and shame, then opened the door and let himself out.
“Leave it open,” Teron said.
Jeffers lurched off, right hand tightly holding his left side. As he went, the cat glided out of the room, hopped up onto the sill of the long windows in the hallway, settled down, and napped.
Praxle drew a deep breath and blew it out noisily, puffing his cheeks. “You can let go of my finger, now,” he said.
“I know,” said Teron. “And I might. After you talk.”
Praxle’s nostrils flared. “As you wish,” he said. “As I am sure you are aware, I have been accused of stealing the Orb of Xo— the, er, Thrane Sphere from the monastery. This I did not do, though I did consider it.” Praxle glowered at his interrogator through narrowed eyes. “I hope you understand how hard this is for me. I deal in information, which means that I acquire it instead of dispense it. On those rare occasions that I give knowledge to others, I charge my clients dearly for the privilege.”
Teron tilted his head slightly. “I deal in death. No charge.” He reflected for a moment, then added, “Pain is just a hobby.”
Praxle drew a deep breath and abandoned all hope of building a false history of events. “Well, then,” he said. “The Orb—that’s what we call it—is originally the properly of the University of Korranberg, recovered during an expedition to Droaam over two millennia ago. It was … lost during the Last War, due in part to a gross blunder on the part of my forebears. We located it at last in your monastery. I came to recover it on behalf of the University. When I met with Prelate Quardov to broach the subject, he would have none of it.”
“You asked him about it?” asked Teron.
Praxle shook his head. “I had no need to. He was most uncooperative. He had the very aura of an ice mephit.”
“That sounds like Quardov,” said Teron.
“That put me in a bit of a quandary, so I retired to my rooms to reconsider, I shall admit that I used some”—Praxle winced with shame as he confessed—“sleight of eye, if you will, to acquire some additional information for my own use. With the information I managed to glean, I had a fair idea where the Orb was secreted. Keiftal mentioned the catacombs, and Quardov was happy to give me details of where previous heroes of the faith were buried. At that point, I was sorely tempted to steal the Orb and bring it back home to its rightful owners. My intent was to send Jeffers into the catacombs that night to explore. I might well have joined him, depending on what demands the prelate or your master placed upon my time. However, I never had the chance to follow through on that.”