‘Milord,’ Coingood said, ‘by your own rules, he must be able to speak, and see, and indeed, hear.’
‘Oh, that! Well, I’m of a mind to change my mind! I can do that, can’t I? Am I not the lord of this keep? Do I not command life and death over thousands?’
Well, hundreds, but why quibble? ‘You do indeed, milord. The world quakes at your feet. The sky weeps, the wind screams, the seas thrash, the very ground beneath us groans.’
Fangatooth spun round to face Coingood. ‘That’s good, Scribe. That’s very good. Write that down!’
‘At once, milord.’ Coingood collected up his tablet and bone graver. But the heat had melted the wax and he watched the letters fade even as he wrote. This was not a detail, he decided, worth sharing with his master. After all, there was another set of chains in this dungeon, and the wretched figure hanging from them was if anything even closer to death than poor Warmet Humble. A quick look in that direction revealed no motion from that forlorn victim.
Some strangers had arrived and proved too obnoxious to simply hang. For a time then, his lord had taken great pleasure in rushing from one prisoner to the other, and in a foul fug of burning flesh the screams had come from both sides of the chamber, along with spraying fluids that dried brown on the stone walls. But it could not last. Whatever uncanny will to live that was burning in Warmet’s soul was evidently unmatched by that other victim in this dungeon. ‘Done, milord.’
‘Every word?’
‘Every word, milord.’
‘Very good. Now, take note of this, and in detail. Dear brother, your life is in my hands. I can kill you at any time. I can make you scream, and twist in pain. I can hurt you bad – no, wait. Scratch out that last one, Scribe. Twist in pain. Yes. In agony. Twisting agony. I can make you twist in twisting agony. No! Not that one, either. Give me some more, Scribe. What’s wrong with you?’
Coingood thought frantically. ‘You’ve covered it well, milord—’
‘No! There must be more! Burn, pull, cut, impale, kick, slap. Slap? Yes, slap slap slap!’ And Fangatooth walked up to his brother and began slapping him back and forth across the face. The man’s head rocked to either side, sweat spraying from the few remaining clumps of hair on his pate. Fangatooth then kicked his brother’s left shin, and then his right. Suddenly out of breath, he stepped back and swung round to Coingood. ‘Did you see that?’
‘I did, milord.’
‘Write it down then! In detail!’
Coingood began scribbling again.
‘And note my exultant pose, will you? This stance here, see how it exudes power? Somewhat wide-legged, as if I might jump in any direction. Arms held out but the hands hanging like … like the weapons of death that they are. Weapons of death, Scribe, you got that? Excellent. Now, look at me, I’m covered in blood. I need a change of clothes – wait, are you writing all that down? You damned fool. It was an aside, of course. That bit about my clothes. Tell me you’ve washed and dried my other black robe?’
‘Of course, milord. Along with your other black vest, and your other black shirt and other black leggings.’
‘Excellent. Now, clean up around here. I will meet you in the Grand Chamber.’
Coingood bowed. ‘Very well, milord.’
After Fangatooth marched from the room, Coingood set down the tablet and studied it ruefully for a moment, noting how flecks of ash had marred the golden sheen of melted wax. ‘No wonder my eyes are going,’ he muttered.
‘For the blessed gods of mercy, Coingood, release me!’
The scribe looked over at the wretched figure. ‘Them slaps weren’t so bad, were they? The kicks to the shins, well, that must’ve smarted. But you have to agree, sir, today’s session was a mild one.’
‘You’re as evil as my brother!’
‘Please, milord! I am in his service, and take my pay the same as the maids, cooks and all the rest! Does this make us all evil? Nonsense. What is evil, sir, is you inviting me to hardship and discomfort. I need to eat, don’t I? Food on my table, a roof overhead and all that. Would you deny me such rights? In any case, how long would I survive defying your brother? Oh no, he wouldn’t just fire me, would he? No, he’d set me on fire! Why, I’d be up in those chains, screaming myself hoarse. Do you really wish that on me, sir? All for a few moments of blessed freedom?’
Warmet’s bleak eyes remained fixed on Coingood throughout the scribe’s reasoned defence. Then he said, ‘My flesh is in ruin. My soul cries out in unending torment. The joints of my arms rage with fever. The muscles of my neck tremble with this effort to hold up my head. I was once a hale man, but look at me now, and wait to see me tomorrow, when I will be even worse. So, you will not lift a hand. Then I curse you, Coingood, as only a dying man can.’
‘That was cruel! Spiteful! I am not to blame! It is your brother who commands me!’
Warmet bared bloodstained teeth. ‘And there we are indeed different – you and me, Coingood. Look at me and know this: despite these chains, my soul remains free. But you … you have sold yours, and it came cheap.’
There was a moan from the direction of the other man hanging in chains, and both Warmet and Coingood looked over that way, to see the prisoner stirring, drawing his legs under him and then slowly, agonizingly, standing to relieve the weight of his chains. His terribly scarred face swung to them, and the man said, ‘It’s green and comes in all sizes, but that’s all I’m giving you, Warmet.’
Warmet’s sweat-beaded brow wrinkled above the red weal of burnt flesh. ‘All right, give me a moment. Coingood’s still here.’
‘Green—’
‘I’m having a conversation, damn you!’
‘You’re down to four questions, Warmet!’ the man sang.
‘Shut up! I’m not ready to start again!’
‘Four questions!’
‘Bah! Solid or liquid?’
‘Both! Hee hee!’
Coingood collected up his tablet and hurried from the chamber.
‘Wait, Scribe! Where are you going?’
‘I can’t!’ Coingood cried out. ‘Don’t make me stay, milord!’
‘You have gore, shit and piss to clean up – your master commanded it!’
Coingood halted almost within reach of the door’s latch. ‘Unfair!’ he whispered, pushing the scented cloth against his nose. But Warmet spoke the truth, damn him. He swung round. ‘Hot or cold?’
‘You can’t ask questions!’ the other prisoner shrieked.
‘Hot or cold?’ Warmet shouted. ‘That’s my next question!’
‘In between!’
Sighing, Coingood said, ‘Snot.’
‘Cheaters!’
‘Snot?’ Warmet asked. ‘Is it snot? It’s snot! Snot! I win!’
Feloovil Generous adjusted her breasts beneath the stained blouse and then sat down opposite the sailor with a heavy sigh. ‘We don’t get many strangers visiting,’ she said, ‘for long.’
The man shrugged, hands wrapped tight around the tankard of hot rum – a rather excessive amount of rum, but then he’d dropped a clean silver coin onto the tabletop before she’d even finished pouring it, so she wasn’t of a mind to advise him on medicinal portions – the man was chilled down to the marrow in his bones. She could see that. ‘Wreckers’ lot,’ he said in a low, unsympathetic rumble.
‘Well now,’ she replied, leaning back. ‘No reason to be unkind and all. Let’s start anew. I’m Feloovil Generous, and I own the King’s Heel.’
‘Happy for you,’ the sailor replied. ‘My name’s Emancipor Reese. Not that you’ll need to remember it, since we won’t be here long. I hope.’
‘As long as you got the coin,’ she said, ‘you’ll be welcome in here, is what I’m saying.’ She glanced over at Spilgit, who shared the table with the sailor, and scowled. ‘Take heed of that, Factor, since you got rent owing and the winter ahead’s long and cold.’