Jashon's scowl deepened. 'We'd never have made it to the gates before they were closed, anyway. Go and get your weapon if you wish, I'm going to make this bastard co-operate. Just tell me what 'no wish' means.'
Tranton smiled. 'He means that he doesn't owe you anything. You haven't done anything for him, so he has no gratitude, and therefore he won't grant you a wish.'
'I'm not asking for a bloody wish! I'll make him beg for mercy first, then, when he agrees to help, he'll get his damned healing.'
'It won't work.'
'He doesn't know what suffering is yet.'
'Oh, I think he may have a fair idea.'
For the next two hours, Jashon strived to prove what suffering was to the Mujar. He drove spikes into Chanter's flesh, then pulled out his finger and toenails. The Mujar watched his tormentor with hate-filled eyes, and the crowd dwindled as its members lost interest and went to collect their weapons. Another two hours passed while Jashon twisted the Mujar's broken limbs, pinched his flesh in iron instruments and cut off fingers, toes, ears and skin. Tranton, one of the few who remained, shook his head in constant assertion of his original verdict.
By the time the lanterns spluttered from lack of oil, Jashon wiped sweat from his forehead, his thin face twisted with frustration and anger. Rising, he went to the door with jerky strides and paused there to glare at Chanter.
'Tomorrow I'll carry on, Mujar. You will agree in the end.'
Tranton grunted, and Chanter turned his head away, closed his eyes and called down sleep's sweet dark curtain as the Lowmen left.
Talsy woke, cold and stiff, as the faint streaks of dawn lightened the sky. Shivering, she pulled her jacket closer, her arm throbbing. A pair of little red eyes in the darkness caught her attention, and she stared at them with a twinge of fear. From their size and spacing, they were rat's eyes, and she wondered why such a timid creature would stare at her so boldly. As she groped for a rock to hurl at the animal, it darted towards her. Talsy recoiled, trying to pull her legs out of its way and scramble to her feet. Tiny claws scratched her ankle, and a vision slammed her back against the wall like a red hot-spike through her brain.
A dingy, drab room with black beams and a grey wooden ceiling filled her mind. A crowd of men, dressed in robes of various shades of dirt, from almost white to nearly brown, stared down at her. They had leering, hard-eyed faces, and she sensed excruciating pain and helpless imprisonment mingled with the metallic smell of blood, all dulled by cold.
Talsy slumped as the vision faded, her heart pounding. For a moment, she had shared Chanter's mind, sensed his pain and seen his surroundings. The rat had brought her a plea for help. He was badly injured, held captive by the pitiless men who tortured him. She frowned, recalling the image. Almost all the men wore belts of woven blue cord, the badge of a doctor. Rising, she set off down the deserted street in search of a doctor, or the place where doctors congregated, somewhere they would hold a Mujar.
The next day, Jashon kept his promise to torture the Mujar, devised new methods and tried any that his peers suggested. He laid gold on the Mujar's skin and rubbed salt into his massive wounds, followed by every imaginable poison and finally acid. The unman groaned and sometimes cried out, and Jashon slapped him awake whenever he seemed liable to slide away into oblivion. Through it all, his reply remained the same, and by the afternoon Jashon was at his wit's end. Tranton perched on a table and mocked his friend.
'I told you, you're wasting your time.'
'Shut up!' Jashon snarled, angered by Tranton's superior smile. 'I haven't given up yet.'
'Well, you should.' Tranton sighed and stroked his dirty beard. 'You can't make a Mujar do anything he doesn't wish to do.'
A commotion at the door heralded the entrance of a tall man followed by a gaggle of grey-robed advisors and four guards in bright red and gold livery. The newcomer's purple cloak swept the floor with a gold-trimmed edge, and his grey silk shirt peeped from a waistcoat with a white fur lining. Well-tailored black trousers and dark brown boots completed his ensemble. Iron-grey hair receded from his high temples, his steel-grey eyes glinted and his hooked nose hung over a thin-lipped mouth.
'Governor.' Jashon bowed, straightening his robes. Tranton tried to groom his straggly beard while the others tidied themselves as best they could. The governor frowned at the mangled Mujar.
'I've heard what you're trying to do here, Doctor Durb, and commend you for your efforts. I take it you are still unsuccessful?'
Jashon bowed. 'Yes, Your Grace, but I haven't given up yet.'
'What haven't you tried?'
Jashon hesitated. 'We'll think of more things to try, Your Grace.'
Cusak nodded. 'It looks like you've been doing a good job.'
Jashon preened, and Tranton shook his head.
The governor leant over the Mujar. 'What would you say if I offered you half the wealth in the city's coffers, Mujar? You would be the wealthiest man in the city, able to buy anything you wished; food, wine, women, a house, anything at all. Never ending comforts, the respect and gratitude of all the Truemen in this city, exemption from the Pit and protection from any harm?'
The Mujar shook his head. 'No.'
Cusak scowled. 'You will never be offered such an opportunity again. Prove that Mujar are good for something.'
'No.'
Cusak straightened. 'You're a fool, as we have always known. Useless Mujar scum.' He turned away, and Jashon hurried after him as he strode to the door.
'I won't stop trying, Your Grace.'
Cusak nodded. 'I think you're wasting your time, doctor.'
'May I ask when the Black Riders will be here?'
'Tomorrow.'
The crowd of advisors swallowed the governor up, and he left without a backward glance. Jashon turned back to his victim, fear compounding his frustration.
'Get chains and pulleys, we're going to tear this bastard apart,' he snarled.
Talsy's tired feet dragged along the hard street, which had worn her soft shoes almost through. Twice, she had been forced to run from street thugs, and she scanned the road ahead for danger. Her swollen, throbbing arm drained her energy and made her queasy, and all she wanted was to lie down and rest. The people she had asked for directions had chased her off, probably thinking her a beggar looking for free care, of which there was none. At the end of the street was a square with a fountain that had several stone drinking basins around it.
Talsy leant against a basin and sipped the water that ran into it from the copper spigot. It tasted brackish and dead, with none of the sweet wild taste of a forest stream. Gingerly she unwrapped her arm, revealing a broad red area with a yellow line in the middle of it. Red streaks ran from it up to her shoulder. She washed it, then splashed her face and scrubbed some of the grime off her exposed parts.
Becoming aware of a presence behind her, she turned to find a kindly eyed woman there. The matron smiled, then glanced at the septic cut on Talsy's arm.
'You should get that seen to, young miss.'
'I don't know where to go.'
The woman pointed down the street. 'Just around the next corner there's a medical college. Someone there will help you. Have you money?'
Talsy nodded, astonished to be shown kindness in this city where no one seemed to care. The woman smiled again and cupped her hands to drink from the spigot. Talsy thanked her and headed down the street, wrapping her arm again. Around the next corner was a grey building with black beams protruding from its walls and a painting of a grey-bearded man in a white robe and blue belt hanging outside the open door. She trotted into a white corridor with grubby marks on the walls and opened the closest door to peer into a room full of desks and chairs. As she turned away, a young man emerged from a door further down the passage and approached her.
'Can I help you?' he enquired.
'Yes, I'm looking for a Mujar. I know he's here. Where is he?'
The man looked amazed. 'How would you know that?'
