The Invisible Hands - Part 1: Gambit by Andrew Ashling Page A

undressed, that he had a small penis for such a big man. He had groaned under his weight and almost yelled out in pain when he was penetrated, notwithstanding the diminutive size of the man's equipment and the fact that he had used liberal amounts of heavily scented oil.
    He had borne it. Thirty-five gold pieces was a small fortune after all. What he almost hadn't been able to stand were the strange, sweet sounding words Drevau had insisted on whispering in his ear, spent but still impaling and crushing him. It was done with. Why couldn't the man stop? Why did he need to caress Landar with those big, fleshy, sweaty hands of his? Why did he insist on holding him in his arms when he had finally rolled off him? What did those almost plaintive words, spoken in a strange language, mean?
    “I'd like to meet you again,” Drevau had said, in plain standard Palton, when they parted.
    “I'm sure we will,” he had replied, feeling the weight of the coins in his pocket and smiling as if he had a toothache.
    The next morning, upon leaving the house he had sensed that he was being followed. A few streets further down, three men, ordinarily dressed, had stopped him. They had identified themselves as Black Shields and had asked him to come with them. They had some questions they wanted to ask him.
    6
The high king's voice brought him back to the present.
    “Are you under the impression that the ambassador is kept abreast of what happens in the seat of power of Lorsanthia?”
    Landar didn't reply immediately.
    “Drevau Heemar is not to be underestimated, Sire. Considering his, eh, amorous attitude toward myself, you might think he is a dot— ing, old fool, but I assure you, he is a very astute man. I can't be totally certain, but I think, were war imminent, he would take care to bring some prized possessions into safety. Those would include me. And yes, he must have reliable sources in the highest circles.”
    He felt nervously at the stuffed little finger of his glove, where his pinky used to be. He winced. Sometimes, the remembrance of the instant they had hacked it off imposed itself upon his mind, without him being able to stop the gruesome images or the vivid recollection of the searing pain.
    They had been very civil. They had interrogated him in a brightly lit room, somewhere deep in the royal castle. On the walls hung several implements that all had one thing in common. They were designed exclusively with the purpose of inflicting pain, of tearing the human body apart, piece by piece. He was the only one who had looked at them.
    Almost from the first time they had believed him. He had no idea that his robust client was the ambassador to Ximerion of his Divine Majesty, the king of Lorsanthia. Yes, the name had sounded outland— ish, but, no, he hadn't made the connection. Yes, his brother was something or other in the Royal Administration, but he never talked about his work with Landar. Except that he sometimes muttered that he couldn't understand how the kingdom kept afloat with such morons running its administration. He never went into particulars, though.
    6
They had repeated the sessions a few times with an interval of several days. Landar thought it was his youth, his open face and earnest eyes that had made the difference. And the fact that he had told the truth. To his immense relief, the instruments never left the wall.
    He was kept in a small, but fairly comfortable room and was fed well. Daily he was allowed to walk for a while in some inner courtyard.
    In the beginning he had asked when he would be released, if his brother knew what had become of him and about half a dozen other things that came to mind. The answers had been friendly but evasive. Nobody knew. Nobody knew anything about whatever he asked. They were almost apologetic about it. Before long he stopped asking questions altogether.
    Then the court had moved to the southern border, to Fort Nira.
    They had taken Landar with them.
    “Sir Landar,” the high