him.
Kraxxi slept, then. Or fell unconscious. It didn’t matter.
( THE F LAT —D EEP W INTER : D AY XXXIX— MIDDAY )
The manacles were padded, and they hadn’t left her naked after they’d stripped and searched her—which were about the only good parts of her current situation, Merryn had decided during her last lucid interval in the near-stifling darkness of the tent.
She hadn’t revealed who she was, as far as she knew—not verbally, though Kraxxi had blurted out that she was “cousin to the King of Eron.” But her captors had wasted no time in summoning someone well versed in Eronese clan tattoos to inspect the one on her left shoulder—which showed the characteristic insignia of Clan Argen, augmented by the knotwork border of her own sept, Argen-a, which presided over workers in precious metal. They’d know that, too, of course, since every clan controlled a specific craft. But what the tattoos did not reveal was that—though she’d been trained as a smith, she’d displayed an early aptitude for more physical arts, and when she’d come to her official Raising during the eighth after her twentieth birthday, she’d requested a tour at War-Hold. Which was where she’d met Kraxxi—and damn him for it, too.
Not that she wanted any of that known just now, though some of it was implicit by association, since War-Hold-Winter was the closest craft hold to the Flat.
As for the torture … It was odd. It was also subtle. Her captors clearly knew enough of Eronese training to know that she would’ve been conditioned to a high pain threshold indeed. And while there were certainly things they could doto surpass it, those things generally came with a cost—like a broken mind.
Of course they could always have threatened her beauty—since her countrymen (and herself, she conceded) prized aesthetics above all else. But that would also have been a last resort. Actually, she agreed with their methods: Use the subtle approach at first, the one least likely to do permanent harm—and, quite possibly, the one least likely to be remembered.
She’d resisted so far, but another round was surely about to begin.
They were using imphor wood, which was nothing if not versatile.
Back home in Eron, it was often used, illegally, before sports competitions, since it enhanced reflexes and deadened the pain response. A stick of it in the mouth during minor surgery served as anesthetic. But the fumes could
also
deaden the mind in such a way that a person felt compelled to tell the truth.
Fortunately, the more one took, the more resistance one built up, which was part of the training at War-Hold. But one must be careful for all that. Too much too fast made one reckless and wild—which got one killed. More—especially burned as incense—could make one hallucinate.
Whoever had been entrusted with her knew that very well indeed.
It had been deceptively simple at first. The search, and then the shift they’d given her to put on, and then the manacles, which gave her room to move somewhat, but which effectively pegged her spread-eagled on the carpeted floor of a thick-walled tent.
And then a brazier was introduced, full of smoking sprigs of very fresh imphor indeed—twig and leaf. It had smoked like crazy, and she’d tried not to inhale but ultimately had no choice. And eventually she’d found herself intrigued past endurance by the texture of the pile on which she lay, and how certain colors felt slightly different against her skin, and in trying to read the pattern through the flesh of her calves and thighs.
At some point, someone had removed the brazier, then returned to sit calmly at her feet, face shrouded by a veil of wet sylk. “Who are you?” that one had demanded. “Whence do you come? What is your connection to Prince Kraxxi? What is this secret he would convey?”
That was it. Over and over. She’d started to answer, too, but had become interested in the difference between dark blue and purple, and had
Kraxxi slept, then. Or fell unconscious. It didn’t matter.
( THE F LAT —D EEP W INTER : D AY XXXIX— MIDDAY )
The manacles were padded, and they hadn’t left her naked after they’d stripped and searched her—which were about the only good parts of her current situation, Merryn had decided during her last lucid interval in the near-stifling darkness of the tent.
She hadn’t revealed who she was, as far as she knew—not verbally, though Kraxxi had blurted out that she was “cousin to the King of Eron.” But her captors had wasted no time in summoning someone well versed in Eronese clan tattoos to inspect the one on her left shoulder—which showed the characteristic insignia of Clan Argen, augmented by the knotwork border of her own sept, Argen-a, which presided over workers in precious metal. They’d know that, too, of course, since every clan controlled a specific craft. But what the tattoos did not reveal was that—though she’d been trained as a smith, she’d displayed an early aptitude for more physical arts, and when she’d come to her official Raising during the eighth after her twentieth birthday, she’d requested a tour at War-Hold. Which was where she’d met Kraxxi—and damn him for it, too.
Not that she wanted any of that known just now, though some of it was implicit by association, since War-Hold-Winter was the closest craft hold to the Flat.
As for the torture … It was odd. It was also subtle. Her captors clearly knew enough of Eronese training to know that she would’ve been conditioned to a high pain threshold indeed. And while there were certainly things they could doto surpass it, those things generally came with a cost—like a broken mind.
Of course they could always have threatened her beauty—since her countrymen (and herself, she conceded) prized aesthetics above all else. But that would also have been a last resort. Actually, she agreed with their methods: Use the subtle approach at first, the one least likely to do permanent harm—and, quite possibly, the one least likely to be remembered.
She’d resisted so far, but another round was surely about to begin.
They were using imphor wood, which was nothing if not versatile.
Back home in Eron, it was often used, illegally, before sports competitions, since it enhanced reflexes and deadened the pain response. A stick of it in the mouth during minor surgery served as anesthetic. But the fumes could
also
deaden the mind in such a way that a person felt compelled to tell the truth.
Fortunately, the more one took, the more resistance one built up, which was part of the training at War-Hold. But one must be careful for all that. Too much too fast made one reckless and wild—which got one killed. More—especially burned as incense—could make one hallucinate.
Whoever had been entrusted with her knew that very well indeed.
It had been deceptively simple at first. The search, and then the shift they’d given her to put on, and then the manacles, which gave her room to move somewhat, but which effectively pegged her spread-eagled on the carpeted floor of a thick-walled tent.
And then a brazier was introduced, full of smoking sprigs of very fresh imphor indeed—twig and leaf. It had smoked like crazy, and she’d tried not to inhale but ultimately had no choice. And eventually she’d found herself intrigued past endurance by the texture of the pile on which she lay, and how certain colors felt slightly different against her skin, and in trying to read the pattern through the flesh of her calves and thighs.
At some point, someone had removed the brazier, then returned to sit calmly at her feet, face shrouded by a veil of wet sylk. “Who are you?” that one had demanded. “Whence do you come? What is your connection to Prince Kraxxi? What is this secret he would convey?”
That was it. Over and over. She’d started to answer, too, but had become interested in the difference between dark blue and purple, and had
Similar Books
