Bringer of Light (39 page)

The deeper they went, the fewer light-globes there were. They reached the top of a rough staircase cut into the stone; the light from below had the dim and inconstant quality of lamplight. Kerin shivered and thought of the canto of the Traditions that described the Abyss as a bottomless pit of undying flame. They descended carefully to a passage lit by guttering oil lamps hanging from the ceiling. The passage was lined with heavy wooden doors: some were barred shut, some opened into narrow cells. The air was dank, and stank of unwashed bodies, excrement and fear. The floor was slick. Kerin heard groans, and in one case muffled sobbing, coming from behind the closed doors.

The passage turned and divided. Urien led her to the right, towards an arch, through which was a larger room. He bade her wait just up the corridor. ‘Your presence will be more effective if used as a last resort,’ he whispered.

‘Do not think to keep me out now! I will see what havoc I have caused,’ she hissed.

‘I do not doubt it, but I would appreciate being permitted to conduct this inquiry in my own way.’

She gave in, muttering, ‘As you wish.’

Urien carried on up the corridor, and turned through the archway. His voice carried clearly back to Kerin. ‘So, Captain Siarl, now that you have had both opportunity and incentive to rethink your answers, I will ask you again: are you part of any organised movement to oppose the current order?’

For a moment there was no sound. Then a man’s ragged voice ground out a single word: ‘No.’

‘Captain Siarl, as with the last time I asked you that, your answer almost has the ring of truth.’ Urien sounded genuinely regretful at having to push for answers. ‘But “almost” is not enough. Let us move on to the second question, then: do you know of any such movement?’

Another pause, and the same answer, this time barked out: ‘No!’

‘Please, Captain Siarl, understand this: I
will
have the truth. Once I have it, no further injuries will be visited on you, and your wounds will be treated. You may even hope to see your family again one day.
But only if you share everything you know
.’

‘Will not . . . betray . . .’

The strain in the man’s voice chilled Kerin’s soul. She realised she had been breathing shallowly through her mouth, to guard against the stench of men brought low; it was making her lightheaded, and now she made herself breathe more deeply through her nose, despite the smell.

‘Betray who, Captain Siarl?’ Urien’s voice was all reason and sympathy.

Siarl muttered something.

‘I did not quite hear that.’ Now Urien sounded as stern as a schoolmaster.

More muttering.

‘Your friend?’ said Urien, ‘and who would that be?’

Silence, save for harsh breathing. ‘As I have explained before,’ said Urien slowly, ‘to refuse to answer a question is to invite pain.’

Kerin heard a sharp click, and then an animal scream. She flinched, her heart beating faster in response.

‘Not – betray – a friend, even – even friend who betrays . . .’ The monitor’s response was breathless, as though every word escaped against his will.

Kerin waited, breathless herself, but he did not finish his sentence.

Urien said, ‘We need a name,
chilwar
; that may be enough to end this, you know. Just a name.’

‘Have – no – name . . .’ The man sounded resigned to his fate.

‘Perhaps we will come back to that later. Let me ask you something less difficult. Why did you visit the lower city earlier this evening?’

‘What . . . visit?’

‘Please, Captain, we are past the time for games. I know you did, for you were seen. What I wish to know is
why
.’

‘Will – say – nothing – more – on that.’ Though every word was ground out, Kerin could hear the resolve in the captain’s voice.

‘I think that would be a mistake.’

More silence. Kerin braced herself – but apparently that had not been considered an unanswered question, to be punished with pain, for Urien continued, ‘What will you tell us, then? I leave the next topic up to you.’

‘Nothing . . . nothing at all . . .’ This time the voice had a singsong quality to it.

Urien came out into the corridor a few moments later. His face was pale and sweat-sheened, almost as though he were the one being tortured. He walked up to Kerin, and muttered, ‘I believe this man will die before he tells me anything of use.’

‘Do you want me to come in?’ Despite her earlier brave words, as she listened to the proceedings, Kerin had come to hope it would not be necessary to see the full truth for herself.

‘I fear we are out of other options. However, it is your choice . . .’

‘I will come in. I said I would, and I will.’

Urien nodded gravely. ‘I will call you, then,’ he said, and went back into the room. Kerin heard him say, ‘Captain Siarl? Can you hear me? If you will not speak to me, perhaps there is one whom you will trust with the truth.’ More loudly, he added, ‘Divinity, would it please you to enter now?’

Kerin took a deep breath of the foetid air and walked slowly through the archway.

Her first impression was how cluttered the room was. Devices of unknown function lined the walls and hung from the ceiling. In the centre of the room stood a large wooden frame, like a bed with no mattress. On one side of the frame was a great wheel and some smaller cogs, to turn the frame to any angle. A naked man was strapped to the frame, his hands pinioned above his head. His feet were contained in a wooden box with a handle on the side. The frame was currently inclined at a shallow angle facing the door. Urien, standing at its foot, turned to Kerin as she entered and swept back in a bow, making the circle as he straightened.

The third man in the room also made a deep obeisance. He was a rangy, stolid-faced youth whose large ears protruded from long, straggly hair. He stared at her with an expression of horrified awe, grunting softly as his hand repeatedly circled his breast. Urien had told her that the inquirers, themselves prisoners of suitable temperament whose own death sentences had been commuted, had their tongues removed when they were put to work in the dungeons.

Kerin made herself approach the bound figure.
Siarl, his name is Siarl
, she reminded herself. At first she could not focus beyond the stained wooden box encasing his feet. The stains were the same colour as those in the indentation in the stone floor below the frame. She looked up abruptly. One of Siarl’s arms was marked with long, dark streaks and a lacework of thinner trickles ran down into his armpit. The other arm was unmarked. There were a dozen or so raw spots on his chest that looked like burns. When she saw what had been done to his groin it took all her willpower not to look away.

Urien remained half-turned to her, to maintain the illusion of respect while he addressed the prisoner. ‘Captain, you are honoured. The Beloved Daughter of Heaven has chosen to hear your confession in person.’

Siarl stared at her: one of his eyes was bloodshot and puffy; the other looked unnaturally wide and bright in contrast. She saw the agony in his face, and the effort of not giving voice to his pain.

‘Div— Divinity!’ His right hand twitched in its manacle. Despite everything, he was trying to make the circle. ‘Divinity, I – I tried to be worthy! Of you. Of the . . . Mothers. My faith is strong – beyond – all this.’

‘Then speak your confession,
chilwar
,’ said Urien gently.

‘Unburden your soul,’ Kerin said, as imperiously as she could manage, grateful for the hidden technology in her headdress that smoothed her words, even, if she wished, amplified them. The Sidhe had been careful to ensure that the Cariad’s voice remained constant throughout the ages.

Siarl stared at her. His gaze made her feel naked, despite her veil. He continued to stare, his damaged eye watering copiously. Finally, his mouth twitched. He made a strange noise, deep in his throat. For a moment Kerin could not place it. Then he did it again, and this time she realised: he was laughing. The laughter had a raw edge to it, and it ended in a word, growled out long and slow: ‘Impostor.’

Kerin had no doubt he meant her. Siarl had drawn breath again, and the laughter restarted, but quickly turned to sobbing.

She looked at Urien, who was watching Siarl with an expression on his face Kerin initially took for distaste, until she saw it was more like disgust, though not, she suspected, for the poor man disintegrating before them.

Captain Siarl began to mutter, and Urien leaned closer. Despite herself, Kerin tried to hear what he was saying. He was praying to Turiach, beseeching the Mother of Mercy to give him succour in his time of need; it was a prayer she knew well, and to hear it in these circumstances made her feel sick.

Suddenly Siarl said, quite clearly, ‘—should never have gone there—’

She wondered if Urien would try and follow up the unexpectedly coherent phrase, but he said nothing; looking back at Siarl’s rolling eyes and twitching mouth, Kerin suspected they would get very little sense from him now.

Siarl continued, his chest heaving and his voice louder, as though fired by some hidden reservoir of manic strength, ‘Had to try and warn her . . . not innocent, but better she goes, just goes . . . He damns himself, he always has . . . knew as soon I saw her, it was those eyes, Aelwen’s eyes . . .’

Kerin turned her head a fraction to look at Urien; if the name Aelwen meant anything to him he gave no sign of it. She smelled urine, and saw the fresh tears on Siarl’s cheeks. Everything was running from him: liquid, words, sanity . . .

‘—would not listen . . . he never would, when it was about her . . . says it is not true, but anyone can see . . . he can be a foolish, stubborn man, always was, always . . . Olwenna will scold me for being so late!’ This last was delivered loudly, and in a tone of great affront.

‘Olwenna. Your wife,’ Urien said to the raving man, answering Kerin’s unspoken question; she was, after all, supposed to be all-knowing.

Kerin could bear it no more. She turned and stumbled round the corner, almost tripping over her heels, and into the first empty cell she found. There she ripped off her headdress and bent over, bracing herself against the wall with her other hand as hot vomit rushed up her throat. She kept retching until her guts were aching, weeping so hard she could not see straight. Her legs tried to give out, but some stupid, practical impulse would not let her fall;
what if the Cariad were seen abroad with her clothes covered in filth and puke?
Instead she put both hands against the wall and focused on the feel of the rough stone digging into her palms. She thought she could still hear Siarl’s unhinged ranting.

By the time she had regained control of herself, there was only silence.

‘I’ve got you on sensors,’ said Jarek. ‘Well, when I say you . . .’

‘Just the box – yeah, I know. I’m right behind it, pushing. Best way to move it.’ Taro sounded out of breath.

‘I don’t want to worry you, but we’re drawing a lot of attention.’ The coms board was a solid block of colour, and he was the lucky recipient of several active sensor sweeps – though no weapons were locked on them yet – at least, none the
Heart of Glass
’s comp recognised.

‘No shit. You think they know something’s up?’

‘Reckon they do.’ He checked the readouts again. ‘Uh, your heading’s off.’

‘I know. Fucking thing’s a pig to drive. Hang on . . .’

‘Yeah, that’s better. Right, I’ll bring the ship about so you’re lined up with the cargo-hold.’

Once he’d repositioned the
Heart of Glass
, Jarek opened the com again. ‘You’re on course for intercept in fifty-five seconds. Soon as you’re a bit closer I’ll open the doors. You ready?’

‘As I’ll ever be. How hard . . . can it be?’

‘That’s the spirit. Just like spitting into a moving bucket.’

‘Yeah, and I’m the spit.’

‘At this speed it’s—
Shit!
’

‘What is it?’

‘I think they’re firing up a mass-driver.’

‘And that’s bad, is it?’

‘Potentially – but we stick with the plan, all right?’

‘Sure. Am I still heading for the hold doors?’

‘You’re heading for the doors. More or less.’

‘In that case don’t change course and don’t speed up.’

‘You’ve got it.’

‘Here we go . . .’

Taro’d’ve thought the lack of grav would’ve made it easier to move the comabox, but no such luck. He only had to give it a gentle shove and it was off like greased shit. Any time his aim wasn’t spot-on, he ended up having to re-adjust its course immediately. It was like juggling jelly.

He was going at a fair old lick, but as the
Heart of Glass
loomed larger he realised this wasn’t necessarily a good thing: quite aside from the comabox being harder to steer the faster it went, Nual, inside the box, wasn’t in for a soft landing when they got there. Given it was too big to hold, the only way to slow the comabox down was to get in front of it and use his body as a brake, but when he flew round and tried that, the bastard thing just pushed him back. For a moment he panicked, until he worked out that he needed to actively fly, opposing the box’s momentum with the power from his implants.