A Storm in the Desert: Dragonlinked Chronicles Voume 3 (33 page)

Fillion followed the man to the prisoners.

Bertram looked over the three captives. They sat on the wooden deck, backs against the building, hands in their laps and arms bound to their sides with rope. Crazy woman glanced from Bertram to Fillion and glared.

“Ah, you have a fan, I see.” A smile curved Bertram’s lips.

“She tried to kill me. I threatened to have Coatl eat her if she didn’t behave.”

“Sounds painful.” Bertram squatted and looked over the various tools laid out on the platform a few feet away. After a few minutes, he glanced at one of the two guards standing at either side of the prisoners. “Bring the skinny one.”

As the guard hauled the prisoner to his feet, Bertram hurried off. Fillion quickly followed him back around to the opposite side of the building from the wide platform. Bertram sat on one of the benches along the wall, and Fillion stood to the side, waiting.

Moments later, the guard, Tellon, pulled the thin prisoner around the corner by the arm. After removing the gag, he thrust the man before Bertram.

The interrogation began.

“What’s your name?” Bertram’s tone was friendly, casual.

Thin man stared at him, wary. “Cal.”

Bertram nodded. “Nice name. Who do you work for, Cal?”

Cal glanced at Fillion and the guard, then looked back at his questioner. “The woman.”

“Cal.” Bertram sounded disappointed. He shook his head. “We were doing so well. You know that’s not what I was asking.”

The thin man leaned forward. “See here, I do work fer her. She hired me three, well, nearly four weeks back, but I got no idea who she works fer an’ I don’ care.”

The doubtful expression on Bertram’s face seemed to upset the man. It almost appeared as if Cal were insulted not to be believed.

“She pays me.” He nodded, once. “She’s mah boss. If yer wantin’ ta know who she works fer, yer gonna hafta ask them ‘cause I don’ know.”

Bertram leaned back against the wall and crossed his arms. “How old are you, Cal?”

The sudden change in questioning seemed to confuse the man. “I’ll be, uh,” one of his shoulders lifted, “twenty five, this spring.”

Bertram raised a brow. “Cal.”

“Fine.” His shoulders slumped. “I’ll be eighteen.”

Fillion stared at him.
Did you hear that? Cal is my age!

Mild surprise came through the link.
He looks a great deal older than you.

What kind of life had Cal lived? He looked tired and worn and much closer to the age he tried to lie about. And as to that, how had Bertram known it was a lie?

“Where did she hire you?”

“Nowhere special. T’were a little shit-town in the backwoods I were passin’ through. It ain’t even on any map. She an’ the big man asked if I could use some money.” Cal shook his head. “As if there are folks who can’t?”

“Do you have anyone special? A boy or a girl?”

Cal stared at Bertram. He didn’t seem to understand what some of the questions had to do with anything. He sneered. “I had ta spend every minute schemin’ ta get food in mah belly, weren’t no time ta look for someone ‘special.’”

Fillion thought he understood what Bertram was doing. Mixing personal questions with real ones kept Cal off-balance, and it kept him answering.

“This town where they hired you, where is it?”

“From here?” Cal shrugged. “I ain’t no tracker. We made mostly west for here after I got hired, though, so, east?”

“Was the journey exciting?”

Cal shrugged again. “They din’ push hard, but t’weren’t no pleasure trip neither. Jus’ got here today. First stop, she said. We were gonna visit a few places an’—” His eyes widened a bit.

“I see.” Bertram nodded. “Thank you, Cal.” He looked at the watchman. “Gag him and take him back. Bring the big one next.”

When Cal had been led away, Fillion turned to Bertram. “Why did you choose him to be first?”

“He was the youngest and the least kempt of them. He’s either less professional, and thus more likely to reveal information, or extremely clever. He was answering truthfully, for the most part, so the former is more likely.”

Fillion nodded. It made sense. There was one thing that didn’t though. “About those soap brands, just because they were made in Stronghold doesn’t mean they were bought there, does it?”

“No, it doesn’t. They could have been bought anywhere in the east, and, in fact, I’m sure Cal isn’t from Stronghold. The other two, however, are.”

“Why couldn’t the toiletries have been bought here, well, say, in Pellucid?”

“This far west? I think not. Once more rail lines like Lord Eldin’s link them, goods from one coast will be more readily available on the other. But as it is now, it takes a great deal of time to transport anything from that far away. More expensive, too. A merchant wouldn’t order goods from the other side of the continent if the same could be had from nearby. No, west coast brands are all you’ll likely find on this end of Muirgen.”

The man had a point, Fillion had to admit. It was just so odd to have Stronghold come up again.

It took longer, but eventually, the big man revealed his name to be Nold. He had much less to say than Cal, however.

Bertram smiled. “Come now, Nold. Who do you work for?”

“I’m not sayin’ nothing.” The big man looked away.

Bertram stood and faced Nold with less than two feet between them.

Nold, who had a good four inches on the interrogator, gazed down at him with a look of curiosity.

Bertram removed the pry-bar from somewhere in his coat and smacked it in his palm, much the same way Nold had earlier.

Fillion stared at him. When had he picked up the tool?

Nold, for his part, only had eyes for the tool. His brows were drawn together, as if he might suddenly be worried. The ropes binding his arms at his sides made little noises. Was he trying them for looseness?

“I’m sure you know what this is, right?” Bertram held the bar up.

“A s–spike-puller. What of it?”

Ah, Fillion thought. So that’s what they’re called.

Bertram smiled. “Yes. And can you see this?” He held it up for the big man and pointed to something on its side. “Hmm? It’s a manufacturer’s stamp. Someone tried to chisel the name off, but if you take the remnants of the name from all the tools, it’s clear that this says Stronghold Tool Company.”

Nold frowned and stared ahead.

“Ah, yes. You can see the point I’m trying to make.” Bertram started walking slowly around Nold, smacking the spike-puller into his hand from time to time. “Every little thing about you three points to the east coast, and to Stronghold in particular.”

Nold kept his gaze forward, attempting, Fillion supposed, to seem calm and untroubled. The wrinkle between his brows and the slight frown implied differently.

“These tools are from Stronghold.” Smack. “You came from the east.” Smack. “Receipts and tickets in your bags are from Stronghold.” Smack. “Even your shaving soap is from Stronghold.”

Bertram stopped pacing behind Nold and stood, waiting.

When there wasn’t another smack of tool into hand, Nold glanced sideways as if he were thinking of looking behind.

Fillion didn’t know why, but he was now certain who these people worked for. “How long have you worked for National Transportation?”

Nold’s eyes widened before he blinked and stared forward again. “National what?” His left shoulder rose a touch and he said, “I don’t work for them.”

He lies.

Fillion glanced at Coatl. The dragon watched them from where he lay a few dozen feet away. “Coatl says you lie.”

“Does he now?” Bertram glanced at Coatl a moment, then walked in front of Nold. “Have you heard of Tiberius? Do you know him?”

Surprisingly, the name sounded familiar to Fillion, for some reason.

Nold, however, acted as if he did not know it. “Who?”

He recognizes the name.

Fillion glanced at Coatl and smiled. “He knows the name.” This was going to make the questioning so much easier.

Nold’s brows nearly touched now and his jaw muscles were twitching.

Bertram glanced at Fillion and nodded. Turning back to Nold, he said, “Did Tiberius order you to do the wrecking?”

“I told you, I’ve never heard . . . No.”

That may be true. It is hard to say. When he thinks of the name, he does not imagine a face.

“He might be telling the truth. Nold’s not in charge of this little group. I don’t think he’s ever met Tiberius. Perhaps crazy woman is the only one who has?”

Bertram stared at Nold. “That’s possible.” Then, to the guard, he said, “Gag him, take him back, and bring the woman.”

As the guard followed Nold around the corner, Fillion asked Bertram, “Who’s Tiberius?”

“He owns National Transportation.” The man frowned. “Well, not outright. The ownership is a little complicated. But it’s his company.”

Fillion grunted. The name was familiar, he just wasn’t sure why. Maybe Gregor had mentioned it at some time. National Transportation was one of his father’s competitors, after all.

When the gag was removed, crazy woman spit on the ground, nearly hitting Bertram’s shoe. Her glares weren’t reserved for Fillion alone anymore. “Piss on all of you.”

Looking up from the spit and his shoe, Bertram said, “You’re a charming one, aren’t you?” He looked her over, noting her face, her hair, and her clothing. Nothing seemed to escape his scrutiny.

Fillion glanced at the same things, but saw nothing out of the ordinary. Had Bertram learned anything?

“How much do you enjoy leading this merry little band of wreckers?” the man asked. “One of them is hardly more than a boy, while the other is a giant of a man, though quite loyal to you. Even so, we were able to learn some things from them.”

A sly grin split her face. “The kid knows nothing and Nold won’t talk.”

“Ah, my dear, but I don’t need them to talk. Actions, many times, speak louder than words.” He leaned forward, gaze locked with hers. “For instance, when I say Tiberius . . .”

Fillion caught a subtle change in her expression.

“There,” Bertram said, pointing at her. “Right there. The grin stayed on your lips, but your eyes. There was recognition, and surprise.”

Fillion had seen that, too. Her eyes had gone flat, then widened a touch.

She imagines a face when she thinks of the name. It is blurred to me, fuzzy, but it is there.

“She knows him,” Fillion said. “And she’s met him, too. She knows what he looks like.”

All trace of humor gone, crazy woman looked from him to Bertram. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Will you tell me your name?”

Her lips pressed together.

“Come now. Or would you prefer I continue to call you ‘crazy woman,’ as my young friend here does?”

She shot a glare at him, then returned her gaze to Bertram. She looked to be trying to make up her mind. After a moment, her expression turned fierce. “Iris.”

Fillion stared at her, eyes wide. Like the flower? That was such a . . . delicate-sounding name.

She glanced at him and glared. “Close your mouth, shit-sprout.”

“Iris,” Bertram said, “we know you’re from Stronghold. We know you work for National—”

“No.” She shook her head. “You’re wrong.”

She lies.

Fillion didn’t need Coatl’s help to know that. Everything they’d discovered so far led to only one conclusion.

Bertram stared at her. “The odds I’m right are better than the odds Midnight Kiss won that race.”

Her eyes grew large. “How do you know—” Clamping her lips shut, she stared straight ahead.

Bertram pulled the wager ticket from his coat pocket and looked it over. “Most people don’t place bets in a city they do not plan on returning to. And really, Iris, twenty marks on Midnight Kiss at seventy-five to one? Those are pretty long odds.”

“With twenty marks,” Fillion said, “a person could probably live three weeks? Four? A month?” He looked from Iris to Bertram. “Wouldn’t you say?”

The man nodded. “Indeed. Times are still hard many places. Twenty marks goes a long way. And yet, Iris, you toss twenty marks at a horse like it means nothing.”

Bertram looked back at the ticket. “Or, perhaps it means everything? Is this supposed to be your way out, then? If Midnight Kiss won the race, when you take this back, the payout will be one thousand, five hundred and twenty marks.”

Fillion whistled. He couldn’t even imagine that much money.

“A person could travel anywhere with that, maybe even start a new life.” Bertram held the ticket up between forefinger and index finger.

The muscles in her jaw twitched over and over.

He tucked the ticket back in his coat and sat back. “My boss is a bit of a bastard.”

Iris glanced at him, brows drawn together.

“More than a bit, truth be told.”

Fillion frowned. “I can vouch for that.”