The interrogator at one of the tables had evidently heard all his subject could tell him. He rose, motioning the slave to stand.
“Now, go with that man,” he said in Kharanda, motioning to one of the detectives in native guard uniform. “You will trust him; he is your friend and will not harm you. When you have left this room, you will forget everything that has happened here, except that you were kindly treated and that you were given wine to drink and your hurts were anointed. You will tell the others that we are their friends and that they have nothing to fear from us. And you will not try to remove the mark from the back of your left hand.”
As the detective led the slave out a door at the other side of the room, the psychist came over to the long table, handing over a card and lighting a cigarette.
“Suicide story,” he said to one of the girls, who took the card.
“Anything new?”
“Some minor details about the sale to the Caleras on this timeline. I think we’ve about scraped bottom.”
“You can’t say that,” Phrakor Vuln objected. “The very last one may give us something nobody else had noticed.”
Another subject was sent out. The interrogator came over to the table.
“One of the kidnap-story crowd,” he said. “This one was right beside that Croutha who took the shot at the wild pig or whatever it was on the way to the Wizard Traders’ camp. Best description of the guns we’ve gotten so far. No question that they’re flintlocks.” He saw Verkan Vall. “Oh, hello, Assistant Verkan. What do you make of them? You’re an authority on outtime weapons, I understand.”
“I’d have to see them. These people simply don’t think mechanically enough to give a good description. A lot of peoples make flintlock firearms.”
He started running over, in his mind, the paratemporal areas in which gunpowder but not the percussion-cap was known. Expanding cultures, which had progressed as far as the former but not the latter. Static cultures, in which an accidental discovery of gunpowder had never been followed up by further research. Post-debacle cultures, in which a few stray bits of ancient knowledge had survived.
Another interrogator came over, and then the fourth. For a while they sat and talked and drank coffee, and then the next quartet of slaves, two men and two women, were brought in. One of the women had been badly blistered by the electric whips of the Wizard Traders; in spite of reassurances, all were visibly apprehensive.
“We will not harm you,” one of the psychists told them. “Here; here is medicine for your hurts. At first, it will sting, as good medicines will, but soon it will take away all pain. And here is wine for you to drink.”
A couple of detectives approached, making a great show of pouring wine and applying ointment; under cover of the medication, they jabbed each slave with a hypodermic needle, and then guided them to seats at the four tables. Vall and Dalla went over and stood behind one of the psychists, who had a small flashlight in his hand.
“Now, rest for a while,” the psychist was saying. “Rest and let the good medicine do its work. You are tired and sleepy. Look at this magic light, which brings comfort to the troubled. Look at the light. Look … at … the … light.”
They moved to the next table.
“Did you have a hand in the fighting?”
“No, lord. We were peasant folk, not fighting people. We had no weapons, nor weapon-skill. Those who fought were all killed; we held up empty hands, and were spared to be captives of the Croutha.”
“What happened to your master, the Lord Ghromdour, and to his lady?”
“One of the Croutha threw a hatchet and killed our master, and then his lady drew a dagger and killed herself.”
The psychist made a red mark on the card in front of him, and circled the number on the back of the slave’s hand with red indelible crayon. Vall and Dalla went to the third table.
“They had the common weapons of the Croutha, lord, and they also had the weapons of the Wizard Traders. Of these, they carried the long weapons slung across their backs, and the short weapons thrust through their belts.”
A blue mark on the card; a blue circle on the back of the slave’s hand.
They listened to both versions of what had happened at the sack of the Lord Ghromdour’s estate, and the march into the captured city of Jhirda, and the second march into the forest to the camp of the Wizard Traders.
“The servants of the Wizard Traders did not appear until after the Croutha had gone away; they wore different garb. They wore short jackets, and trousers, and short boots, and they carried small weapons on their belts—”
“They had whips of great cruelty that burned like fire; we were all lashed with these whips, as you may see, lord—”
“The Croutha had bound us two and two, with neck-yokes; these the servants of the Wizard Traders took off from us, and they chained us together by tens, with the chains we still wore when we came to this place—”
“They killed my child, my little Zhouzha!” the woman with the horribly blistered back was wailing. “They tore her out of my arms, and one of the servants of the Wizard Traders—may Khokhaat devour his soul forever!—dashed out her brains. And when I struggled to save her. I was thrown on the ground, and beaten with the fire-whips until I fainted. Then I was dragged into the forest, along with the others who were chained with me.” She buried her head in her arms, sobbing bitterly.
Dalla stepped forward, taking the flashlight
