FORTY
Waylian could still taste the bile in his throat. All he wanted was a cup of water to wash the smell away, and perhaps a lie down to let his nausea pass, but Magistra Gelredida was in no mood to be stopped.
They were back in the bowels of the Tower of Magisters, back in the warren of passageways and chambers beneath the city, secreted away where no one could hear them. It was obvious why — Gelredida wouldn’t have wanted anyone to hear the screams.
Nero Laius was stretched out on a block of wood, his arms and legs manacled tight. He was naked, his skin slick with blood and sweat, shivering in pain and fear. The block was set at forty-five degrees so Magistra Gelredida didn’t have to stoop too low to administer to him. Nero had protested at first, had demanded to be released, had shouted that he was an Archmaster of the Crucible and he had the right to a trial. His protestations had soon turned to screams.
Waylian watched in horror, hand clamped firmly over his mouth as his mistress carefully selected her instruments and went to work.
She used the blades and hooks with precision, swift clinical strokes. At first she didn’t even ask him any questions, just let Nero’s screams ring out, echoing around the chamber. Waylian had clamped his hands firmly over his ears then, but after watching for several painful minutes he’d decided it was more prudent to cover his mouth. It wouldn’t do to puke all over the floor again — he was making a habit of that, and it was just getting embarrassing.
‘So, Nero,’ said the Magistra, taking a step back. ‘Archmaster. Keeper of the Ravens. And Master Diviner? It’s a little remiss of you, isn’t it? Not seeing this coming. Hardly a master of your Art.’
Nero whimpered his reply. As much as Waylian had feared and loathed the man, he still felt a little pity for him now. Blood ran in rivulets down his legs and into a little gutter that sat beneath the block. There were myriad cuts on his body and sections of skin had even been peeled back and pinned in place with steel clips.
‘You were clearly aided in all this by Marshal Ferenz. Are there any other Raven Knights involved in your little scheme?’
Nero mumbled something and Gelredida cocked her head, wincing in annoyance when she couldn’t understand him. She grasped one of the steel clips in a gloved hand — now stained with blood — and twisted it.
Waylian looked away as Nero screamed.
‘Yes!’ he bellowed, blood and phlegm spurting from his mouth. ‘I’m the Keeper of fucking Ravens! Of course some of the knights are on my side. I’ll tell you who they are. I’ll give you all their names. I’ll tell you everything.’
Gelredida leaned back away from Nero’s spit. ‘I know you will,’ she replied.
There was silence then, and in some ways that was worse than Nero’s screams. Waylian could just about handle that, but the long quiet made him wonder what was to come next. Which new instrument would his mistress pull from her bag of tricks?
Instead she leaned in closer as Nero gasped for air. ‘Your conspirators in the tower can wait, Nero. I want to know who you’re working for.’
‘You know who I’m working for.’ Nero’s voice was high and desperate.
‘So say it.’
‘Amon Tugha. I’m in league with Amon Tugha.’
‘Yes, Nero,’ she said with relish. ‘That much is obvious. Why else would you be so keen for the Archmasters to do nothing as the enemy besieges our city? But that’s not the name I’m after.’
Nero stared at her, his eyes wide, tears running down his filthy blood-encrusted cheeks. When he said nothing Gelredida glanced across at her instruments laid out on the table.
‘Waylian. Be so good as to pass me the saw.’
He usually obeyed without question, but Waylian couldn’t bring himself to do it. As much as he loathed Nero, he didn’t want to aid in his suffering.
Luckily he didn’t have to.
‘All right!’ Nero screamed. ‘There’s a man in the city. He’s an agent of Amon Tugha.’
‘A name,’ Gelredida demanded.
‘He calls himself the Father of Killers.’
‘Not good enough. Waylian, the saw.’
‘That’s all I know, I swear it.’ Nero began to sob and whine. It was pathetic, Waylian knew, but he felt sorry for the man. ‘If I knew anything else I’d tell you.’
‘Then you’d better start thinking.’
Suddenly the sobbing stopped and Nero opened his eyes wide. ‘He’s known in the city’s underworld. He runs assassins. The deadliest in the Free States.’
‘And …’
Nero gritted his teeth, as though desperate to keep the truth in his mouth. ‘They were the ones that attempted to murder the queen.’
She just stared at him, then held out her hand to Waylian.
Saw, Grimmy, I think she wants the saw.
‘There’s going to be another attempt,’ Nero cried. ‘The Father of Killers won’t stop until she’s dead.’
‘What have you done to aid him in this, Nero?’
He shook his head vigorously, sweat and snot and blood flying from his damp curls. ‘Nothing. I haven’t done a thing, I swear it.’
She stared at him for the briefest of moments, then held out her hand again.
‘All right! All right! He asked for help with some magicks, Elharim magicks. I didn’t really understand. I gave him nails from a witch’s coffin and mantikore venom, but that was all!’
Gelredida nodded, and backed away slowly. ‘You know, I think I might actually believe you, Nero.’ She turned and regarded her table full of instruments. ‘But you realise I have to be sure.’ She picked up the saw.
As she approached him, Nero began to scream anew. This time it was high pitched, like a cawing bird.
Waylian’s hand tightened over his mouth, but it would do no good. The room felt as if it was spinning, his ears filled with sound as if a flock of angry ravens were pecking at his brain. He turned, his hand fumbling with the handle until he finally managed to open the door. It slammed behind him as he stumbled into the corridor. The noise stopped and Waylian felt relief wash over him, just before he threw up again.
He wasn’t sure how long he waited in that dark corridor. Occasionally the moans and screams would escape through the door and he would wince as though he were in pain himself.
Count your lucky stars and say your prayers to Arlor you’re not next on her list.
Eventually the door opened. Waylian tried to avert his gaze from what lay in the room, but he couldn’t help seeing. There was little left of the Nero he’d known. Just a mass of mutilated flesh, now still and silent in the shadows.
Gelredida closed the door mercifully quickly, stopping to dab at her bloodstained robe with a filthy rag. Good job she was wearing her usual red — it disguised the amount of blood she was drenched in.
‘Come along,’ she said, as though she’d just finished pruning roses rather than a man’s limbs. ‘We must away to the palace, immediately.’
As they made their way up through the maze of passageways he realised his hands were shaking. The nausea was gone, so that was something. All he had to do now was cope with the memories of seeing a man brutally tortured.
Oh, and the fact that you crushed a man’s head with the power of your will alone. There was that too. But one thing at a time, eh, Grimmy?
He took a deep breath when they got outside, which was a feat in itself considering how fast Gelredida was walking and how little breath he had to spare just trying to keep up. It was a relief to be outside, to clear his head, though it was racing with questions now he had a chance to think.
‘Mistress, I don’t understand.’
‘Understand what?’ she replied.
‘The last time we asked the Archmasters to join with the city against the Khurtas they refused. Why did they change their minds so quickly?’
Gelredida glanced at him, and had he not known better he would have sworn there was a half smile on her face.
‘That, young Waylian, was mostly down to you.’