"What the hell was all that?" Goblin asked.
"I don't know. And I'm not sure I want to find out. Somehow, we got ourselves into big trouble." That for the benefit of eavesdroppers.
Goblin accepted his cue. "Damnit, Candle, I told you we shouldn't come up here. I told you the Oar people would have an arrangement with the Guard."
One-Eye jumped in then. They really ragged me. Meantime, we talked it over with the finger speech, decided to wait the Colonel out.
Not much choice anyway, without tipping our hands.
Chapter Thirty-Two: IMPRISONED IN THE BARROWLAND
It was bad. Far worse than we suspected. Those Guard guys were paranoid plus. I mean, they didn't have an inkling who we were. But they did not let that slow them.
Half a platoon showed up suddenly. Rattle and clang at the door. No talk. Grim faces. We had trouble.
"I don't think they're going to turn us loose," Goblin said.
"Out," a sergeant told us.
We went out. All but Tracker. Tracker just sat there. I tried a funny. "He misses his dog."
Nobody laughed.
One of the Guards punched Tracker's arm. Tracker took a long time turning, looking at the man, his face an emotional blank.
"You shouldn't ought to have done that." I said.
"Shut up," the sergeant snapped. "Get him moving."
The man who had punched Tracker went to hit him again.
It might have been a love tap in slowed motion. Tracker reached around the moving fist, caught the advancing wrist, broke it. The Guardsman shrieked. Tracker tossed him aside. His face remained a blank. His gaze followed the man belatedly. He seemed to begin wondering what was happening.
The other Guards gaped. Then a couple jumped in with bared weapons.
"Hey! Take it easy!" I yelled. "Tracker…"
Still in that sort of mental nowhere, Tracker took their weapons away, tossed them into a comer, and beat the crap out of both men. The sergeant was torn between awe and outrage.
I tried to mollify him. "He's not very bright. You can't come at him like that. You have to explain things slow like, two or three times."
"I'll explain!" He started to send the rest of his men into the cell.
"You get him mad, you're going to get somebody killed." I talked fast, and wondered what the hell it was with Tracker and his damned pooch. That mutt went away, Tracker became a moron. With homicidal tendencies.
The sergeant let sense override anger. "You get him under control."
I worked on it. I knew the immediate future boded no good from the attitude of the soldiers, but was not overly worried. Goblin and One-Eye could handle whatever trouble developed. The thing to do now was keep our heads and lives.
I wanted to tend the three injured soldiers, but dared not. Just looking at One-Eye and Goblin would give clues enough for the other side to figure out, eventually, who we were. No sense giving them more. I concentrated on Tracker. Once I got him to focus on me it was no great task to get through, to calm him down, to explain that we were going somewhere with the soldiers.
He said, "They shouldn't ought to do me like that, Croaker." He sounded like a child whose feelings had been hurt. I grimaced. But the Guards did not react to the name.
They surrounded us, all with hands upon weapons, except those trying to get their injured companions to the horse doctor who served as the Guard's physician. Some of them were itching to get even. I worked hard to keep Tracker calm.
The place they took us did not encourage me. It was a sodden cellar beneath the headquarters. It looked like a caricature of a torture chamber. I suspect it was meant to intimidate. Having seen real torture and real torture implements, I recognized half the equipment as prop or unusually antiquated. But there were some serviceable implements, too. I exchanged glances with Goblin and One-Eye.
Tracker said, "I don't like it here. I want to go outside. I want to see Toadkiller Dog."
"Stand easy. We'll be out in a little while."
Goblin grinned his famous grin, though it was a little lopsided. Yes. We would be out soon. Maybe feet first, but out.
Colonel Sweet was there. He did not seem pleased by our reaction to his stage. He said, "I want to talk to you men. You didn't seem eager to chat earlier. Are these surroundings more amenable?"
"Not exactly. They make one wonder, though. Is this the penalty for stepping on the heels of the gentlemen traders of Oar? I didn't realize they had the blessing of the Guard in their monopoly."
"Games. No games, Mr. Candle. Straight answers. Now. Or my men will make your next few hours extremely unpleasant."
"Ask. But I have a bad feeling I don't have the answers you want to hear."
"Then that will be your misfortune."
I glanced at Goblin. He had gone into a sort of trance.
The Colonel said, "I do not believe you when you say you're just traders. The pattern of your questions indicate an inordinate interest in a man named Corbie and his house. Corbie, let it be noted, is suspected of being either a Rebel agent or Resurrectionist. Tell me about him."
I did, almost completely, and truthfully: "I never heard of him before we got here."
I think he believed me. But he shook his head slowly.
"You see. You won't believe me even when you know I'm telling the truth."
"But how much are you telling? That is the question. The White Rose compartments its organization. You could have had no idea who Corbie was and still have come looking for him. Has he been out of touch for a while?"
This sucker was sharp.
My face must have been too studiedly blank. He nodded to himself, scanned the four of us, zeroed in on One-Eye. "The black man. Pretty old, isn't he?"
I was surprised he did not make more of One-Eye's skin color. Black men are extremely rare north of the Sea of Torments. Chances are the Colonel had not seen one before. That a black man, very old, is one of the cornerstones of the Black Company is not exactly a secret.
I did not answer.
"We'll start with him. He looks least likely to stand up."
Tracker asked, "You want me to kill them. Croaker?"
"I want you to keep your mouth shut and stand still, that's what I want." Damn. But Sweet missed the name. Either that or I was less famous than I thought and overdue for ego deflation.
Sweet did seem amazed that Tracker was so confident.
"Take him to the rack." He indicated One-Eye.
One-Eye chuckled and extended his hands to the men who approached him. Goblin snickered. Their amusement disturbed everyone. Me not least, for I knew their senses of humor.
Sweet looked me in the eye. "They find this amusing? Why?"
"If you don't indulge a sudden whim of civilized behavior, you're going to find out."
He was tempted to back down, but decided we were running some colossal bluff.
They took One-Eye to the rack. He grinned and climbed up himself. Goblin squeaked, "I been waiting to see you on one of those things for thirty years. Damned my luck if somebody else doesn't get to turn the crank when the chance finally comes."
"We'll see who turns that crank on who, horse apple," One-Eye replied.
They bantered back and forth. Tracker and I stood like posts. The imperials became ever more disturbed. Sweet, obviously, wondered if he shouldn't take One-Eye down and work on me.
They strapped One-Eye down. Goblin cackled, danced a little jig. "Stretch him till he's ten feet tall, guys," he said. "You'll still have a mental midget."
Somebody swung a backhand Goblin's way. He leaned only slightly. When the man pulled his hand back, having missed entirely and been only lightly brushed by a warding hand, he looked at his own paw in astonishment.
Ten thousand pinpricks of blood had appeared. They formed a pattern. Almost a tattoo. And that tattoo showed two serpents intertwined, each with its fangs buried in the other's neck. If necks are what snakes have behind their heads.