“My lord....”
Timor turned around. One of his templars stood at the entrance to his chambers. “Yes, what is it?”
“We have apprehended two of the spies,” the templar said. “We found one at the merchant house of Kulik, and the other was arrested in the elven market, coming out of the Drunken Giant wineshop. He was observed at several inns and taverns, making inquiries about the Veiled Alliance.”
“Indeed?” said Timor. “Where are they now?”
“Downstairs, my lord, awaiting your pleasure.”
“Excellent. Have them brought in.”
He poured himself some wine and raised the goblet to his lips. A moment later, he heard shouting on the stairs, and then a scuffle. He frowned. There was more shouting, and the sounds of blows falling, then several of his templars entered, accompanied by soldiers from the city guard, dragging the two prisoners. Oddly enough, the prisoners were not so much resisting them as trying to get at one another.
“What is the meaning of this?” Timor said, his voice a whip crack. “How dare you create a disturbance in my home?”
The two men fell silent as they stared at him. Then one turned to glower at the other and spat out, “If you tell him anything, you misbegotten son of a silt Wader, I shall tear out your tongue and feed it to you!”
“Silence!” Timor said sharply. “The only one to make any threats here shall be me.” He turned to the soldiers. “Leave us.”
“But, my lord, these men are dangerous....” the sergeant of the guard protested.
“I said leave us. I shall interrogate these men myself. You are dismissed.”
“Yes, my lord.”
The soldiers left, leaving only Timor and his templars with the prisoners, whose hands were bound. Both men glared at him defiantly.
“What are your names?” asked Timor, raising the goblet to his lips once more.
“You tell him nothing, you miserable turncoat!” said the one who had spoken before. The second man lunged at him, and the templars had to grab them both to keep them apart.
“Very well, then,” Timor said, fixing his gaze on the first man. “You shall tell me.”
“Til tell you nothing, templar!”
Timor stirred the wine in the goblet with his forefinger. He mumbled something under his breath. He looked up at the prisoner. “Your name.”
The prisoner spat at him.
Timor grimaced with disgust and wiped away the spittle, then dashed the wine from his goblet into the man’s face. Only it was no longer wine. As the droplets struck the prisoner’s skin, they began to burn into his flesh, and the man screamed, doubling over in pain, unable to raise his hands to his smoking face as the acid ate it away. The second prisoner’s eyes grew wide with fear as the first man fell to his knees, screaming in agony.
“Tour name,” said Timor softly, once again.
“Rokan!” screamed the prisoner. “My name is Rokan!”
Timor softly whispered the counterspell and made a languid pass with his hand. The prisoner abruptly felt the burning stop as the acid turned once again to wine. He remained on his knees, doubled over, whimpering and gasping for breath.
“There now, that was simple, was it not?” said Timor. He turned toward the second prisoner and raised his eyebrows.
“D-Digon!” the man sputtered quickly. “My name is Digon!”
Timor smiled. “You see?” he said. “Things are so much easier when people are cooperative.” He turned back to glance at Rokan, still kneeling, doubled over, on the floor. “You two seem not to Eke each other very much,” he said. “Why is that, I wonder?”
“Because he was my chieftain, and he feels I betrayed him,” said Digon hastily.
Timor raised his eyebrows. “And did you?”
Digon looked down at the floor and nodded. “I had no choice,” he said. “My will was not my own. He made me.”
“Who made you?”
“Sorak, damn his eyes!” said Digon, spitting out the name. “I curse the day I met him!”
“Sorak?” Timor said. “How very interesting. Tell me more.”
After seeing what Timor had just done to Rokan, Digon let the story come tumbling out of him. He told all about the plan the marauders had to ambush the caravan, and how Sorak had run into them while they were posted on lookout duty on the ridge overlooking the city. Timor listened intently as Digon described how easily Sorak had dispatched the other lookouts, leaving only Digon alive, and the templar looked even more interested when Digon described how Sorak had disarmed him and then probed his mind, reading all his thoughts.
“There was nothing I could do, my lord,” said Digon as he finished the story. “He knew that if I tried to go to Rokan and warn him, Rokan would kill me for failing in my task. I had nowhere else to go except to Tyr, for I could not rejoin my comrades, and I knew that if my path crossed with his again, he would read my thoughts and know if I had failed him. The task that he demanded of me did not seem to be so difficult. Go to Tyr and make inquiries, contact the Veiled Alliance and tell them he was coming. That was all, and then I would be free.”
“And you were so afraid of him you dared not disobey?” asked Timor.
Digon shook his head. “You do not know him, my lord templar. The elfling is a powerful master of the Way, and he fights like a fiend. It was worth my life to disobey him.”
“And you say he came down out of the mountains?” Timor asked.
“He must have,” Digon replied. “From our vantage point, we would have seen anyone approaching from any other direction. We never expected anyone to come down out of the mountains. There is nothing up there, no villages, no settlements, nothing.”
“And yet that is where he came from?” Timor asked again.
“I can think of no other explanation, my lord templar,” Digon said.
“Hmmm,” said Timor. “Interesting. Most interesting. So the marauders had been sent to Tyr, to infiltrate spies into the merchant houses and attack the caravan to Altaruk?”
“Yes, my lord.”
“Where is the attack meant to take place?”
Digon told him the exact location where the marauders waited.
“And who are the spies?”
Digon told him that, as well, and Timor was fascinated to discover that what he said matched Sorak’s report to the council down to the last detail. That seemed to eliminate the possibility that Sorak himself was a spy from Nibenay, as did the fact that he came down from the Ringing Mountains. Nibenay was dear on the other side of the tablelands. So then what was his game?
“Please, my lord,” Digon pleaded, “I have told you all I know. I beg you, do not kill me. I shall do anything, I am still of value. I can guide your soldiers to where the marauders wait to attack the caravan. I can identify those who are among the caravan party itself.”
“You pathetic, groveling, piece of kank dung,” Rokan said, his voice hoarse as he looked up at his fellow marauder with disgust.
Digon gasped. Rokan’s face was a ruin. Not even his own mother would have recognized him. The acid had eaten deeply into his flesh, in some places clear through to the bone. His face was a horror. With his hands bound behind him, he had not been able to protect himself. By reflex, he had turned his face at the last moment, so that most of the damage had occurred only to one side. One eye had been dissolved, leaving a raw and empty socket. An exposed cheekbone gleamed whitely, and a corner of his mouth had been eaten away, giving him a frightening, permanent rictus, a death’s head grimace. As the drops of acid had run down his cheek, they had etched trails in his flesh, so that it looked as if it had been raked by claws.
“You may kill me if you like, templar,” Rokan said, his one-eyed gaze boring into Digon, “but if the dead can have one last request, set free my hands for but one moment.”
Timor smiled. “I have no intention of killing you, my friend,” he said. “I dislike to waste potentially valuable resources. You possess strong spirit. It is a mean spirit, but it is mean down to the bone. I can always use a man like you. But this pathetic wretch,” he added, turning toward Digon, “has no perceptible value whatsoever.”