Forging the Sword (The Farsala Trilogy) (42 page)

A flash of professional appreciation crossed his face, but when it vanished his eyes were colder than they’d been before.

Kavi licked his lips nervously. “I don’t know anything about that.”

“She and her escort were also discovered, and fled, though I later found that they’d spent some time here. Time in the wine cellar and the vault. And the gold in that vault is missing. Which is something of a mystery; the vault guards they subdued know they spent time in the sewer access doing something, but they were too disoriented to remember what went on there. The guards posted downstream in the sewer tunnel claim they saw and heard nothing—a lack of vigilance for which they’ve paid by walking the entire length of the sewer twice. Wherever the gold is, it isn’t there. Not any longer.

“You’re not going to convince me that your presence at the scene of so many of our defeats is due to coincidence—and short as my patience is tonight, I advise you not to try. For the last time, where is the gold?”

Kavi’s mouth was dry; he had to swallow before he spoke. “I don’t know.”

It was the truth, though there was a lie at its core. He didn’t know where the gold was, but the odds were very high that it was concealed in the hidden cellar under Nadi’s house. The thought of Hrum troops breaking down their door, of the children shrieking in fear, of Nadi, Hama, and Sim hauled off to a life of slavery, frightened Kavi even more than the growing determination in Garren’s face.

He’d agreed to take some risks to get the gold, but this was ridiculous!

The governor turned, not to his aide, but to the gnarled decimaster. “Break this man.”

The centrimaster, who had yet to take a single note, bit his lip. “Sir, prisoners can’t …”

“He’s a traitor, not a prisoner,” said Garren. “But even if he weren’t, he stands between me and the conquest of this land. I’d break hundreds like him if I had to.”

“Wait!” said Kavi quickly. “I can … ah …”

“Are you going to tell me where the gold is?” Garren asked.

Kavi drew a shaky breath and summoned all his resolve. “I don’t know where it is. But surely we can make some sort of deal. I do know—”

Garren turned and walked out of the cell without a backward glance.

“I have information!” Kavi shouted after him. “Wait! We can deal!”

The centrimaster did look back. The anguished regret in his eyes was even more terrifying than Garren’s coldness.

“Tie his hands,” the old decimaster told the men who remained.

Kavi tried to resist, which was probably foolish, for there were five of them, and his knees were trembling so hard he could barely stand. His mind wasn’t really on defending himself, anyway.

The Hrum are no different from the deghans, after all.
A deghan would have said “peasant” instead of “man,” but the order would have been the same. So much for the rule of law that Patrius promised. Kavi had been wrong about the Hrum, but his people could still have their chance. He could make it right, make the deaths at the Sendar Wall count for something … if he could hold out. His heart was hammering, and cold sweat poured down his spine. It didn’t seem a likely thing.

“Ah, don’t look like that,” said the decimaster calmly. “It won’t be as bad as you think.”

Kavi blinked in astonishment. “But you’re going to torture me, aren’t you?” He looked around the cell, noticing for the first time that the Hrum had brought no instruments with them—no pinchers, no knives beyond the ones all Hrum soldiers wore at their belts, no brazier of hot coals …

“Well, yes,” the decimaster admitted. “But there are things about breaking someone that most people don’t know. Especially most Hrum.” Kavi suddenly noticed that the man spoke with a pronounced
accent. That wasn’t unusual in the Hrum army, but judging by his words this man must be from some recently conquered country, a country where Hrum laws were new, and other ways, older ways, might have been practiced in this man’s lifetime.

“There you go again, imagining hot pokers,” said the decimaster as his men hauled Kavi to his feet. They had to hold him upright, for his knees were wobbling. “You’re a smith, aren’t you?”

Before Kavi could reply, the decimaster slammed a fist into his stomach and, when Kavi doubled over, hit him in the face with his knee.

Kavi collapsed to the floor, coughing, gasping for breath. On top of Garren’s kicks the blow to his stomach hurt, and his face was beginning to throb.

“You’re a smith, aren’t you?” the man asked again.

Kavi managed to nod.

“So you’re used to burns, right?”

Kavi didn’t nod this time, though the man was right—smiths were accustomed to minor burns, and he knew that most people feared hot metal far more than he did.

“That’s the thing with pain,” the decimaster continued. “If someone’s motivated, he can withstand it for quite a while—as long as he’s rested. It’s only when a man tires that he can be broken. And it’s no shame to you, boy, so don’t go blaming yourself. Humans are fragile that way. They get tired enough, they’ll break from that
alone—and every pain and ache becomes bigger. It doesn’t matter how courageous or determined you are. So all I’m going to do, mostly is make you tired.”

“Then why are you beating me?” Kavi asked, as the soldiers lifted him again.

“Because fear, a bit of pain, and hunger will weaken you faster.”

This time the decimaster hit him twice in the face, then the stomach.

Kavi’s ears rang, and he tasted blood on his lips. But the bastard was right again—painful as it was, this wasn’t unendurable. He could hold out, Flame take them. He would!

“You think that now,” said the decimaster, reading Kavi’s face with annoying ease. “But you’re fresh now. I promised the governor I’d have his information for him in two days, three at the outside.”

“Flame take you,” Kavi muttered through swelling lips. He was fighting for Farsala, for his people’s chance to rule!

“That’s enough for now,” said the decimaster. “Get his hand out.”

The soldiers untied Kavi’s hands, but instead of letting him go they seized his wrists, flattening his right hand against the stone floor.

“What are you—”

The decimaster pulled out a small club and struck Kavi’s little
finger with it. Pain shot up his arm, so intense it made his shoulder ache. Kavi gritted his teeth and managed not to scream.

“There, just enough discomfort to make it harder to sleep,” said the decimaster. “Not that well give you much chance for that, but well leave you alone for a while.”

And they departed, taking the straw pallet and blanket with them.

Kavi leaned against one of the walls and took stock. His stomach ached, his face hurt, and his finger throbbed—but all in all, he didn’t feel as bad as he’d expected. He could resist this, he thought, for longer than three days. Long enough for Soraya and Jiaan to arrange his escape?
Jiaan?
Kavi snorted. The commander of the Farsalan army was probably cheering. No, if they hadn’t gotten him out when they were in the vault, within one tunnel of the cells, those two wouldn’t be coming for him. On the other hand, the gold was in Nadi’s cellar, and she’d be applying pressure. And even if worse came to worst, Kavi would be free once Garren lost.

The cold stone floor was even less comfortable than the thin pallet had been, but Kavi was tired. It took some time, but eventually he fell asleep.

H
E WOKE WHEN
the cell door opened. The sound was soft, but under the circumstances it wasn’t surprising that Kavi’s eyes snapped open the moment the lock clicked.

He struggled to his feet, wondering if he should fight or if that would only bring him worse punishment. But all they did was take him from the cell and walk him up and down the corridor before pushing him back in and latching the door behind him.

Now thoroughly awake, Kavi rubbed his eyes—gingerly, for the bruises around them were tender. He didn’t know how long he’d slept, but he didn’t feel rested. If they were going to keep waking him, he should try to get as much sleep as he could.

He lay down on the stone floor again, but just knowing that they’d be coming to wake him soon made sleep harder to recapture.

T
HEY WOKE HIM AT
least once a mark, perhaps more often, though with no window Kavi couldn’t be certain. He had water but no food, but he wasn’t hungry anyway. His face hurt and his hand throbbed, but the exhaustion was worse. When the decimaster arrived for his next beating he almost wept from sheer weariness. Worse than his fear of the pain was his growing fear that the bastard would be right—that lack of sleep would break him more surely than the beatings.

If he broke, they would kill him as soon as they had the gold. Kavi had no illusions about that, not anymore. He was willing to work for Farsala’s freedom, but he didn’t want to die for it! The very thought made his stomach twist with terror. He had to hold out. For himself, for Farsala. For everything.

·   ·   ·

H
E TRIED TO HOLD
out for Farsala, for its freedom under peasant rule. But sometime after the second beating, that notion swam into the moving darkness that more and more was clouding his consciousness. Then he tried to hold out for his own redemption—in reparation for the bloodstained grass near the Sendar Wall. For a girl, a nice girl, who even now was living somewhere as a slave. To his surprise, that motive lasted longer.

He tried to keep the details of Garren’s situation, of why he had to hold out, in the forefront of his mind, but they too kept swimming away—though sometimes they’d swim back and let him look at them before vanishing again.

Only the words he had learned stayed with him: today, salute, mile, serve, deep. He had gotten all five, all five of them, though he’d only been able to pass three of them on. Sometimes he remembered why those words were important, but mostly he just let them march through his mind as the guards walked him up and down the endless corridor.
Today, salute, mile, serve, deep.
He felt as if they’d been burned into his brain, as he had burned them into the leather of Duckie’s halter. He sometimes wondered if he’d ever get them out of his head, but mostly he didn’t think at all, except to long for sleep with an intensity that brought tears to his eyes. But that didn’t mean much, for these days he wept at the slightest provocation.

·   ·   ·

H
E LOST TRACK OF THE
passage of days as well as day and night. His only calendar was his throbbing right hand—three fingers now, and the decimaster sometimes beat him without smashing a finger, so as a method of keeping time it wasn’t reliable.

All thought of redeeming himself had long since passed into the shifting shadows. He was still afraid of dying, in a distant, abstract sort of way, but fear didn’t really touch him, not now. The reason he held out now was because the gold was at Nadi’s house, and he wouldn’t send the Hrum there to beat or enslave Hama, Sim, and the little ones. And if that meant he never slept again, except in the snatches the guards allowed him, then so be it. He was becoming accustomed to it, in an odd, light-headed fashion. Sometimes he hummed the passwords as he walked.

W
HEN THE DECIMASTER
came for his next beating he wept, but he wept most of the time now. His body still felt the blows, but he knew he could endure them, because blows that fell on him weren’t falling on Nadi, Hama, and Sim.

At some point Garren came into the cell—or perhaps he’d been there all along, and Kavi hadn’t noticed him until he interrupted the decimaster. He came to complain, of course. The man was always complaining.

“You said two days, three at the outside. This is the beginning of the fifth day!”

The decimaster shrugged. “He’s tougher than I expected.”

“Siatt’s delegation doesn’t care how tough he is—they’re getting impatient.” Garren’s voice held a threat. “I need that gold. Do whatever you have to.”

The decimaster sighed.
Amateurs.
“Hell hardly feel anything you do to him now, Strategus. He’s holding on to something, holding hard. I doubt he’ll break sooner for pain than for weariness. He’s almost done in. Just another day or two.”

Kavi wondered if they were sufficiently involved in their discussion that he could catch some sleep. His mind understood that Garren wanted him tortured horribly. He should be panicking, but his body was too tired to care.

“That’s what you said two days ago,” Garren snapped. “I want results!”

“And I’m telling you, sir, that getting the results you want takes time. Worn down as he is, a serious injury, even shock alone, could kill him. Then you’d never get your information. Besides … here, let me show you.”

When the guards flattened Kavi’s hand on the floor, he was almost grateful, for that signaled the end of the beating, and after a beating they let him sleep a little longer.

The pain rang through every nerve in his exhausted body, and Kavi screamed. He’d given up on not screaming a long time ago.

When the pain departed and thought returned, he was lying on
the floor. That wasn’t unusual, but there seemed to be more people in the room now, and several of them were yelling.

Kavi almost decided that he didn’t care, that he wanted to sleep now. But the phrase “illegal and degrading” caught his attention, and a spark of curiosity stirred. He opened his eyes.

There were far more men in the room than there had been. Some were guards whose insignia looked odd to Kavi. Then he realized that it wasn’t their insignia, but the fact that their tunics weren’t the standard undyed flax that most Hrum wore, but a purple so deep it was almost black. A substrategus accompanied them, a bulky man with a thick red beard who looked vaguely familiar to Kavi. Barmael, yes, that was the name. The servants had told Kavi he’d been recalled from Mazad, but what was he doing here? If Kavi remembered correctly, this man was one of the officers who disapproved of the governor.

But it was the three men who stood in the middle of the room shouting at Garren who captured most of Kavi’s attention, for they wore the bleached-white robes of Hrum senators. Their language didn’t live up to the dignity of the robes.