She grinned when the boy straightened quickly to attention and tightened his lips. He opened his mouth and shut it again. His tongue licked again at his parted lips.
“Best you let me go,” she said in her steadiest voice. “Are you certain what you want from me is worth the risk you take?”
The young Scholar shot a quick glance at the Kir. “Are you one of the Espadryn?” he asked her. “Can you see the future?”
Dhulyn drew back her head and knitted her brows, giving him her best confused look to cover the cold sinking of her stomach. It wasn’t all that difficult.
“My name is Dhulyn Wolfshead,” she said. “I’m called the Scholar.
I was schooled by Dorian of the River, the Black Traveler. I have fought with my Brothers at the battles of Sadron, of Arcosa, and Bhexyllia. Parno Lionsmane is my Partner-and where is he by the way?”
Again, the boy glanced over his shoulder at the Kir.
“For the moment safe,” the One-eye said, “though if you do not answer our questions, I may be forced to injure him. Or worse.”
Dhulyn didn’t bother to stifle her snort of laughter.
“We’re Mercenaries, you blooded fool. We already know we’re going to die. Kill us, don’t kill us.” She shrugged as well as she could with her arms bound to the chair. “Save your threats for someone you can frighten. Here’s a threat for you.” She paused to give the word weight. “Pasillon.”
One-eye didn’t react, but the young Scholar paled even more, and his lips trembled. “Get book boy here to explain it to you.”
The Scholar turned to face the one-eyed man.
“My lord Kir,” he said. But One-eye didn’t even blink. In fact, Dhulyn thought he might have smiled, just for an instant.
“Pasillon is an empty threat, Scholar. The world has changed and no one will come for her, any more than they came for the others.”
Others? Dhulyn pressed her lips tight. He had done this to other Brothers? Or just other captives? One-eye directed his words to the young Scholar, but his gaze never left Dhulyn’s face. “This one and her companion were seen leaving Gotterang by the north gate. Their Brothers will think that, having been paid for the delivery of the Lady Mar-eMar, they have gone vagabonding.”
Dhulyn kept her face impassive. One man, at least, would know exactly where they were, would not be fooled by any stories of the North gate, no matter how well witnessed. But was Alkoryn Pantherclaw likely to knock at the House Door and ask the Steward of Walls for his missing Brothers in time to do them any good? And if they were asking about her Mark, it wasn’t just their lives at stake here, and these people might, in fact, be able to do much worse than merely kill her.
“If she will not answer the easy way, then we must try the hard.” Lok-iKol stood and revealed a tray of small bottles with waxed stoppers and an apparatus in the shape of a glass funnel with a long, curving spout.
The Scholar’s eyes widened. “My lord, you can’t-”
“I have said you may leave, Scholar. Though I understood that this time, at least, you had questions of your own.”
The boy licked his lips again, looked at the door, looked at Dhulyn’s face. There was an armless chair next to the table. As if against his will, he sat down.
The One-eye picked up the funnel and edged around her chair. Dhulyn heard a sharp metallic click, and felt a pressure on the strap around her forehead, increasing as her head was pulled back and down until her throat was exposed, her mouth sagging open, and she could see behind her to where he stood at the mechanism, part crank, part ratchet, to which the strap around her head was attached.
“I advise you to relax,” the silken voice said. “I am going to use this tube to deliver some liquid into your stomach. If you struggle, I may miss and get your lungs instead. I advise you to be still.”
Briefly, Dhulyn considered struggling anyway, but with her head in this position, she couldn’t even keep her teeth clenched tight. It wouldn’t be poison-there were faster and easier ways to kill her, if that’s all they wanted. While she still lived, she could get out of this- or Parno could get her out. She closed her eyes, made all her muscles relax, and tried to concentrate on what she’d told Mar about the sword swallower.
Parno always woke up instantly alert. Which was a very lucky thing for the hazel-eyed woman inspecting the binding on his right arm. The heel of Parno’s left hand stopped just inches away from the bridge of her nose. The hazel-eyed woman, her hands still on Parno’s arm, never moved.
“My Brother, I greet you,” she said formally. “I am Fanryn Bloodhand. Called the Knife. Schooled by Bettrian Skyborn, the Seeker. I have fought with my Brothers in the north, at Khudren and at Rendia. I fight with my Brother, Thionan Hawkmoon. The smaller arm bone is cracked, my Brother. Careful how you move it.”
“I am Parno Lionsmane,” Parno said. His voice came out in a stiff croak and he cleared his throat. “Called Chanter. Schooled by Nerysa of Tourin, the Warhammer. I have fought with my Brother Dhulyn Wolfshead at Arcosa and Bhexyllia. Is she with us?” He knew she couldn’t be. If she were in this cell, Dhulyn would be in his line of sight. But he had to ask.
“I’m afraid not, Brother,” Fanryn said. “With us is my Partner, Thionan Hawkmoon. Also Hernyn Greystone. But the one called Dhulyn the Scholar was not brought here.”
Parno nodded. “We’ll take it that she lives, then.” Mercenary lore always said one Partner would know if the other died, but Parno wasn’t sure he believed it. “How long?” he asked.
“A day and most of the second,” Fanryn said. “I thought you might wake up when I first bound your arm, but I had no such luck.”
Parno began the slow process of sitting up. Bruises and abused muscles had stiffened as he slept. When she saw that he was determined, Fanryn slipped an arm behind him and helped him settle his aching arm in a sling she had ready, evidently torn from her own tunic. He looked around him. Fanryn sat back on her heels, her Partner Thionan hovering over her shoulder. At a guess they were close to his own age. Both women were tall, though not so tall as Dhulyn, both with the catlike grace that comes of good training and better muscles. They might have been sisters, except for their coloring. Fanryn was as golden blond as Parno himself, while Thionan had green eyes and hair close to black. Even so, Parno had known of parents who had produced such disparate offspring.
The third Brother, Hernyn Greystone, was by far the youngest. A lanky boy with mousy brown hair, and a black eye that discolored most of the left side of his face. There was another pallet against the far wall of their prison, but the young Brother sat on the floor with his back to the wall, his arms wrapped around his knees.
The room itself was cool, the walls dry, made of large blocks of undressed stone. What debris there was was surprisingly clean, scraps of straw and chips of wood, as from packing cases roughly opened. Whatever this room had been originally-and the heavy door with the small barred opening suggested a cell-its most recent use appeared to have been as a storage room.
“Well, I’ve been in worse places,” Parno said, grateful for the steadying arm of Fanryn the Knife.
“All this is due to me.” Young Hernyn Greystone lifted his head off his knees.Thionan Hawkmoon shut her eyes and made an impatient sound with her tongue.
“You are here through my fault, my Brother,” the young man continued in the slightly righteous tone of someone determined to speak the truth, come what may. “You and the Wolfshead. They asked if I knew of a Brother, a tall woman with blood-colored hair. I knew of her, schooled by Dorian of the River as I was myself. So I gave them her name.”
Parno winced as he leaned forward. “Who are ‘they’? Who asked you these things?”