'You said nothing of Lord Zhael's appointment as Commander of the Navy,' snapped Bhakir. 'Nor did you mention the amnesty we have granted Captain Porbrough and his compatriots. Why didn't you remember to do that when you were speaking so eloquently of love and good relationships? Castyll, this is a seaport. If you don't inform people of changes in the navy immediately, they won't be as quick to accept them!'
Which was, of course, exactly what Castyll wanted. He hung his head, lest Bhakir see the rebellion in the dark Derlian eyes. 'I'm sorry. I guess it was because I hadn't done either of those things myself that they just-I don't know- slipped my mind.'
Bhakir tensed, and Castyll realized that he had perhaps gone too far. It was a dangerous, delicate game he and Bhakir played with one another. The moment either of them clearly admitted to the other that Castyll was a prisoner, the game would be over. Castyll knew that both stood to lose should that happen. Bhakir would lose an important figurehead, a mouthpiece beyond compare. Castyll was beloved by his people; Bhakir would have a much more difficult time putting his plans into effect without the young king's apparent approval. And Castyll-well, he'd lose what little semblance of freedom he had and, sooner rather than later, he'd lose his life.
His breath caught in his throat. He could not meet Bhakir's eyes.
'Perhaps then, my young majesty,' purred Bhakir, 'it is time to get you more directly involved.'
Inwardly, Castyll shrank back. Bhakir's words were a threat — of closer guard, of harder, more direct manipulation. He began to wonder if, today, all he had done was to delay the inevitable. Suddenly the beauty had gone out of the day, as the young king of Mhar, ostensibly the most powerful man in the land, trudged with his armed escort back toward his prison.
CHAPTER TEN
But take care when working with old wood, for if you bend it too far, it will break.
Castle Seacliff had been designed with escape from siege in mind. The space below the castle was riddled with tunnels and little rooms where the royal family could be hidden-and where their enemies could be imprisoned. As he descended into one of these dungeons, Bhakir's refrain was simple: At least the little bastard has no magic.
That thought was the only thing that comforted him after Castyll's outrageous performance earlier in the day. It had looked like an accident, and admittedly Castyll couldn't have counted that the wind would be so anxious to snatch up a royal counselor's speech. But it was just too convenient. Bhakir suspected that if the warm summer zephyr hadn't been so obliging, the boy would have ignored the speech and done exactly what he had ended up doing. He'd have come up with some excuse.
Castyll knew he was a prisoner, or at least suspected as much. Whatever else Shahil might have been, the late king of Mhar had not been stupid. Nor was his son, though Bhakir had hoped that simply because of his youth Castyll might be more pliable.
But today he had seen calculation in the boy's actions. He was starting to push, to test the limits, and soon he would become too hard to control.
Puffing with even the simple exertion of walking downstairs, Bhakir narrowed his eyes. But damn it, he still needed Castyll. The people's reaction to the king's speech today proved that. He'd just have to step up security around the youth, that was all there was to it. After Love's Blesser, ugly little thing, had had her way with him, it would be Castyll whom Bhakir would be visiting now, as well as Jemma. Enough of coddling the boy. Time to put him in the dungeon as the prisoner he was.
'Peace with Byrn,' he muttered. 'Pieces of Byrn, is more like it.' The innocent-sounding speech had set Bhakir back several days. He'd have to contrive another official occasion, where Castyll could actually deliver the prepared speech.
Bhakir reached the foot of the stairs and paused to lean up against the cold stone wall, catching his breath. A soft moaning, emanating from the torture room, was sweet to Bhakir's ears. The two guards stationed outside the cell shrewdly averted their eyes from the sight of their master appearing less than perfect. When his breathing had slowed, Bhakir spoke to them.
'Any progress?' he asked.
They snapped to attention. 'We believe so, sir. She broke down and begged for us to stop for the first time yesterday. You can hear her now.'
'Indeed I do. That is good news. But has she agreed to cooperate?'
'No sir.'
'Ah, well, that is unfortunate, but I'm sure it can be remedied. I've saved something special for her.'
It had been ten days since he had first ordered her imprisoned; six days since the torture had begun. They had tried almost everything they could think of that would not injure her hands or her speech. Such delicacy in selection ruled out some of Bhakir's favorite tortures, such as the strappado. Hoisting Jemma up by her hands, bound behind her back, and then letting her drop would dislocate her shoulders, thus making arm movements difficult. And the water torture was perforce eliminated as an option as well. Forcing her to swallow a long length of rag and then yanking it back up-well, that could seriously injure her throat.
He nodded to the guards, and they opened the door. Bhakir swept inside. Over at the table, the torturer was busily cleaning bits of the old woman's flesh out of the clogged cat-o'-nine-tails. Jemma, barely recognizable, lay on the floor. She was bound hand and foot and was curled up in a tight ball, whimpering. Welts covered almost every inch of her body. If Bhakir hadn't known better, he'd have thought that the torturer had sliced her up with a knife.
The torturer rose immediately. Grandly, Bhakir waved him back, indicating he should finish his task. He strode over to the weeping heap that had once been a proud woman and kicked her soundly at the base of her spine.
Jemma screamed and flailed. Bhakir waited calmly for her cries to subside, then said, 'All you need to do is cooperate. It's not that much to ask.'
An incoherent mumbling was his response. He sighed. 'This isn't working.'
The torturer, a bulky man stripped to the waist, nodded. Sweat from his exertions gleamed on his torso. 'I only hope my lord finds no fault with the methods.'
'Good heavens, you've more than proved yourself on past occasions, Garith,' Bhakir hastened to reassure him. 'You're limited in this one, unfortunately. I can't give you the free rein to which you are accustomed. No, we just have to think of something else.'
'How about a variation of pressing?' volunteered Garith, as they both stood gazing at the whimpering, bloody woman. Pressing was a particularly effective form of coercion. Victims were tied faceup and arched upwards, and one by one, stones were placed on their torso, eventually crushing them. 'She has muttered about her joints. Anything I've done to them has produced very positive results. It would be very painful, but not necessarily destructive.'
Bhakir nodded slowly. 'I see what you mean. It sounds like a good suggestion. Here, let me assist you.'
Jemma lifted her head as they approached, sensing a progression in her torment, and cried out, 'Nay, my lords, have mercy! I am an old woman! Please!'
'Jemma,' said Bhakir in a tired, firm voice, as if he were speaking to an errant child, 'I have told you what you need to do if you wish to stop this. I'd much rather you cooperate. Garith's talents are very costly.' The two men exchanged a chuckle.
The old Healer closed her eyes, sinking into herself. She fell silent.
Bhakir sighed. 'As you wish, old woman.' Garith jerked her into an upright seated position. She hissed through her teeth as the caked-over welts began to bleed anew, and shrieked as they pushed her bound ankles into her crotch. Working swiftly, Garith tied a short length of rope between ankles and wrists, so that her feet would not slip away from her body.
