BARD OF PAIN

Dusk Peterson

CHAPTER TWO

They brought him to the dungeon of the Jackal's palace, the great building that had once housed hundreds of people. Just a handful remained now. The people in the Koretian capital had scattered, harried by the dark thrust of war, so that the only people left in the capital were the southern soldiers and the palace officials and lords whom they guarded. The lords and officials well knew what fate awaited them if they were captured; none of them had dared venture beyond the protective cordon of the Southern Army.

Quentin-Andrew saw none of those men and women during his forced march through the bowels of the palace. All that he saw were soldiers, grim-faced, confronting their coming doom with short words and tight lips. Some were old men, others were boys; not many were left to fight for the freedom of Koretia and Daxis. They glanced at Quentin-Andrew without interest. He wondered for a moment whether they failed to recognize his northern uniform and simply thought that he was a southern soldier who had been arrested for crimes. Then he realized that the men would have regarded him in the same empty manner if he had been the Jackal himself, rising from the dead to lead his people in their final battle. The southern soldiers were husks, void of all thought and hope; they were reserving their energy in order to die in an honorable manner.

The dungeon corridors were thick with tar-filled smoke from the torches; the soldiers escorting him coughed into their fists. Quentin-Andrew idly noted how little had changed in this place since he had been there last. Here was the same rough stonework, arching in a low ceiling that was blackened with torch-smoke; here were the same moans and cries, seeping like blood from under the doors; here were the same shadows, fluttering over him like the wings of a carrion bird. And there, straight ahead, the same golden glow—

A door opened next to him, he was thrust without preliminary through the doorway, and he found himself in a cell hot with fire.

The light was harsh to his sight. His eyes were slow to adjust, and when they did, he saw nothing that he had not expected. The instruments on the wall, the tools on the table – they were as familiar to him as the toys of his childhood. He wondered, dimly, why his heart pounded in his chest, as though he were in a strange place.

The door had closed behind him. He heard the rasp of a key turning in the lock, and the part of him that was examining this room with professional interest gave a small smile. The locked door was a mistake. It was better at the start to leave the prisoner with hope that he might escape – better, in fact, to allow that hope to linger as long as possible. That made the moment when the hope died all the more delicious.

As a soldier unbound his arms and wrists, Quentin-Andrew looked over at Randal, who was pulling off his cloak and hanging it on one of the hooks that was intended for other purposes. Without surprise, Quentin-Andrew saw that the young man's gaze was already fixed on him. Randal smiled as the borderlander looked his way, and he said, in a voice that sounded serious, "I hope that you approve."

Without meaning to – and the fact that he had not meant to told Quentin-Andrew immediately what level of man he was dealing with – Quentin-Andrew shifted his gaze back to the objects of the room: the rings, the chains, the pulleys, the irons glowing on the fire. Beside him, Randal said in a matter-of-fact voice, "When I was hired last year, our subcommander gave me permission to stock this place in any way I wished. I made up my list based on the reports we'd received of the methods you use. I didn't think that I could improve upon perfection."

Quentin-Andrew's mouth felt dry; he wondered why it was taking so long to recover from the effects of the gag. He turned his attention back to the soldiers. Only two of Randal's men had remained in the room. The older one was checking the heat of the fire, while the younger one was carefully inspecting the tools to see that they were ready. Quentin-Andrew noted this with professional approval.

Randal snapped his fingers at the first man and nodded toward a shadow-smothered corner. Then, having delegated the early duties, he pulled himself onto the table, stained with black blood, and sat there, swinging his legs like a schoolboy.

"I had mixed feelings about taking this assignment," reported Randal in the same light voice. "You're the hero of my childhood. I used to lie awake at night, dreaming that you would come and ask me to be your apprentice. I knew, of course, that I couldn't hope to reach your heights, but what man could? Since you never came, I learned everything I could about you: I studied your techniques, I recorded your questions in the few cases where the prisoner was released alive – I even received permission from the subcommander to examine the bodies of the men you had questioned, whenever those bodies were returned to our army.

"It was like gazing on the work of an artist. What you did here—" He reached up with his hand and briefly indicated a spot on his body. "It never would have occurred to me, even if I'd lived as long as the Jackal did. Yet you knew . . . How in the names of all the world's gods did you know? You knew what it would do to a prisoner. The first time I used that technique I felt like a bard stealing another man's song, yet the results were too beautiful to throw away. Neither I, nor any man living, will ever be able to match you in what you do.

"It seems such a shame to destroy you."

The fire roaring quietly in the corner was pricking Quentin-Andrew's body with heat. With the sluggishness of a mind that has not been roused to curiosity for many years, Quentin-Andrew wondered why he continued to feel so cold.

From the dark corner, the older assistant emerged, holding several objects, long and black and keenly crafted in a way that made Quentin-Andrew's heart ache. He had never had equipment that fine during his years of work; the Northern Army had been forced to wage war with makeshift tools, scarce at all times. Quentin-Andrew had not even had an assistant since the day that the man who helped him had been foolish enough to listen secretly as the Lieutenant questioned a spy who had to be broken quickly. Perhaps the assistant had merely wished to improve his own skills; perhaps he held hopes of rising above his official. Quentin-Andrew had never discovered the truth, for the assistant had lost his wits shortly thereafter.

Quentin-Andrew had been puzzled by this event; his special technique was supposed to affect no one except the prisoner. But the end result had been that no one was willing to be the assistant's replacement. This had pleased Quentin-Andrew: he could accomplish more on his own.

Now Randal turned to inspect what his assistant had brought him. After shaking his head at the first object offered, he carefully studied the remaining objects. As he did so, he said, "Your special form of questioning – you know what I'm talking about. You wouldn't be willing to teach that to me, I suppose? No?" Quentin-Andrew had said nothing, but Randal had glanced at his face as he spoke and extracted his answer from there. "Well, I suppose it's just as well. I'm not sure I'd have the skill to survive such training. If it could be taught in the abstract— But of course it can't; you'd have to demonstrate it on me. And even if we had the time for that, I wouldn't want to play the odds and see whether I could be the only man you ever failed to break."

He made his decision, reaching for the one with knots, and then turned to look at his prisoner. Quentin-Andrew waited with practiced stillness to see which direction Randal would take. He could tell Quentin-Andrew to do it to himself – that would be the right technique for some prisoners. And if he decided the matter that way, Quentin-Andrew would know that he was in the hands of a man who had not yet learned his trade.

A smile flitted across Randal's face, as though he had guessed Quentin-Andrew's thoughts once more. "Strip him," he said without moving his head to look at his assistants. At this word, the men came forward.

Quentin-Andrew did not try to resist them. Between here and freedom stood a locked door, a guarded exit, hundreds of soldiers, and a moat that was bridgeless at this time of night. There was no sense in wasting strength he would need soon. The only question that was left – and as yet it had not reached the surface of his mind – was how great his loyalty was to the Commander, and how much he was willing to endure for the Commander's sake.

Randal, watching as his assistants laid hands upon Quentin-Andrew, said, "I owe you a second debt you may not know of: you make me and all of the other torturers in the Great Peninsula look like the gods of daylight by comparison. My father . . ." Randal paused considerately as one of the assistants tore Quentin-Andrew's tunic open. Then he continued, "My father was ready to disown me when I took up this profession. He told me that he'd rather have an assassin in the family than someone who did this type of work. Then a few years ago we received word that you'd broken six men in one day. My father said grudgingly that at least I wasn't as bad as you. 'You only break men's bodies,' he told me, 'but the Lieutenant breaks men's spirits.'"

Randal rose, reached over to a small ledge nearby, and tossed an object there into the waiting hand of his older assistant. Quentin-Andrew, as he was thrust face-forward against the wall and his arms were raised above him, had a moment to wonder why Randal chose to bind his prisoners with soft leather straps rather than rope. Had he found an advantage to this method over the burns caused by the coarse cords of hemp? Or was Randal still in the experimental stage that Quentin-Andrew had underwent thirty years before, testing various methods to see which ones worked best? Over time, Quentin-Andrew reflected, it was all too easy to become constrained within old patterns, to miss taking advantage of new ideas and new techniques. Quentin-Andrew had long since given up hope of being taught something he did not already know; now a touch of idle hope reached him that this episode would at least be worth his time in terms of education.

He heard a footstep and turned his head. Randal had walked over to stand beside him; the young man was caressing, with absent-minded habit, the knotted line of the object he held. "Of course my father was wrong," he said quietly. "We both know that the breaking of the body means nothing. It is only when the spirit is broken that the prisoner gives forth his information. That's why, in a certain way, I've been looking forward to this assignment. You are a new challenge: how does one break the spirit of a man who is rumored to have none?" Randal gave a half-smile. "I grew up on stories telling that you were a demon in human form, and though I've heard tales like that about myself during the past few months, none have sounded as convincing as the stories told of you. They say that no man alive has seen your spirit – even to your Commander you are a mystery. Is it true that there's nothing left of you in the Land of the Living? Was your spirit eaten by a demon long ago?"

Quentin-Andrew's arms were beginning to ache. He inwardly recorded this information without interest, along with the fact that his body felt far more comfortable now that his clothes were gone. The heat that was making droplets of moisture begin to dribble down Randal's face touched Quentin-Andrew only lightly, and now that he was facing away from the fire, the light no longer bothered him. He felt secure in the cool darkness, and as yet nothing touched the surface of his spirit to suggest what was taking place at lower depths.

Randal, still stroking the object in his hand, grew suddenly still, his smile fading. Then he said, in a very quiet voice, "Ah. Now, that I would not have guessed. You see? I have become your apprentice despite the different paths of our lives; your presence here is teaching me things I did not know about you. I am looking forward all the more now to our time together."

His gaze flicked over to the assistants, and he gestured with his head. Quentin-Andrew heard the soft scuff of boots retreating as the men gave Randal the room he needed. Randal took a step back, judged the distance, and stepped back once more, stretching his arm in readiness. "I won't bore you with the usual pleas for cooperation," he said. "You know the information I want; you know what will happen if you refuse to speak. Do you need more time to decide?" He paused but an instant before saying, "No. Well, then . . ." He reached out his arm again, allowing the object to unfold at full length; then he glanced at Quentin-Andrew and smiled apologetically. "I'm afraid I've never had the benefit of watching you do this. If my technique is somewhat slipshod, that's why." He pulled his arm back.

In the moment before the blow landed, Quentin-Andrew became aware, as he had not been before, of various noises around him: the scraping of metal as one of the assistants picked up the next tool, the low scream of the fire nearby, and the hard and rhythmic pounding of his heart. And it was at that moment, in the bare second before the whip touched fire upon his flesh, that two appalling facts worked themselves to the surface of his spirit.

He was afraid. And what was worse, Randal knew that he was afraid.

Already his visit to the Jackal's palace was proving to be a disappointment, Quentin-Andrew reflected as he lowered the unconscious guard to the ground. From all that he had heard about the god-man who ruled Koretia, he would have expected the Jackal to have trained his soldiers well, yet it had taken only one pebble pitched in the right direction to distract the attention of the royal residence guard for as long as was necessary. The Jackal had best not prove to be as foolish a man as his guards, Quentin-Andrew thought as he turned his attention to pulling the guard behind the glowing arch that marked the entrance to the royal residence. If the Jackal was, then Quentin-Andrew's trip to this palace was in vain.

Pulling from his belt a flask of strong cider, he trickled a small amount into the guard's mouth, then placed the flask in the guard's limp hand, allowing the cider to collect in a pool on the floor. This done, he glanced down the corridor he had just travelled. The guards were still on patrol further into the dungeon; the corridor was deserted and quiet, except for the sobs emanating from a cell nearby. Quentin-Andrew appreciated the sobs, not only because they made his body grow warm in a comfortable manner, but also because they had covered the sound the guard's head had made when it was hit with the iron.

Quentin-Andrew carefully laid the iron aside in the shadows; he would not be needing that now. What was needed from this point on was not force but guile, as well as swiftness. It would not be long before the patrolling soldiers noticed the absence of the guard, and by that time he must be at his destination.

He turned. The corridor behind him was kept purposely unlit, but Lieutenant Quentin-Griffith had taught his eldest son how patrol guards moved in the dark; he had also taught his son what tricks border-breachers used to get past the border mountain patrol. A smile entered into Quentin-Andrew's eyes. He wondered what his father would think if he knew to what use his son would put that knowledge tonight.

Then the smile disappeared. Quentin-Andrew never allowed his thoughts to dwell long on his childhood.

Slowly, steadily, he moved forward until he could see the glow around the corner ahead. He paused a moment, wishing that he could see the faces of the guards he was approaching; so much depended on what type of men they were. But that was a risk he must take. He waited to allow his eyes to adjust to the light; then he sprang suddenly around the corner and began running with all his might.

He knew that he did not have far to go; he ran fast only because he wanted to come close quickly, so that the guards could see that there was no blade at his belt. Without that knowledge, they might loose their spears immediately. As it was, their spears were lowered with unreassuring suddenness, blocking his path. He skidded to a halt, barely avoiding being impaled on one of the shafts.

"Thank the gods that you're still on alert," he said without preliminary, speaking in the low voice of a man who is accustomed to remaining quiet and calm, even in the face of disaster. "Come quickly; the other guard—"

"Who are you, sir, and what is your business?" The elder of the two guards was wearing the uniform of a sublieutenant. He was about the same age as Quentin-Andrew, thirty-five, and he looked grave and unshaken.

This did not bode well. Quentin-Andrew turned his head slowly, as though noticing for the first time their weapons, shimmering in the torchlight before the guarded doorway. The younger of the guards was chewing his lip hard in a manner satisfactory to Quentin-Andrew, though his spear was steady.

Quentin-Andrew allowed his face to fall into the proper mixture of astonishment, exasperation, and the ill-contained impatience of a man who finds himself confronted with a pair of fools. "Who in the names of all the gods do you think I am?" he asked. "Do you think I wear an outfit like this in the palace for the pleasure of being arrested? Or do I need to show you this?" He flicked up the edge of his tunic momentarily.

The tunic was Daxion and belonged to the soldier that Quentin-Andrew had killed on his way over the border; the thigh-pocket strapped around his leg, on the other hand, was of Koretian design. Only the tiny thigh-dagger, whose hilt peeked out from the pocket, belonged to Quentin-Andrew. He had bought it on the day he left the House of the Unknowable God, using the money he had taken from the priests' offerings for the poor.

The sublieutenant allowed his gaze to flick down toward the thigh-dagger only momentarily; then his eyes rose to Quentin-Andrew's face once more. "Your name?" he asked quietly.

Quentin-Andrew paused; to give his name too quickly would not be wise. Then, having apparently weighed and discarded all other options, he said in a tight voice, "Lieutenant Seaver. Of the Jackal's thieves. And if you expect me to produce proof of my identity, then the Jackal is employing bigger fools than he was when I last visited this land."

There was a flicker in the sublieutenant's expression, as Quentin-Andrew had hoped there would be; he had gambled on the possibility that the royal residence guards would be entrusted with the names of the Jackal's spies. Quentin-Andrew had in fact met the thief whose name he was stealing. When last he saw him alive, the man's expression had been one of profound relief as Quentin-Andrew granted him the mercy-stroke. Standing nearby had been the torturer of the Daxion palace; his expression had been one of awe, having been privileged to see Quentin-Andrew at work.

That had been only yesterday. So swiftly had Quentin-Andrew broken the prisoner that the spy's arrest would not have been reported yet to the Jackal's palace.

The sublieutenant, apparently deciding to take the safer road in this matter, said, "I'm sorry, sir, but I can't let you into the royal residence. Not without the Jackal's permission beforehand."

"May the Jackal eat his dead!" Quentin-Andrew followed this up with a string of curses in Border Koretian. He did not speak Common Koretian well enough to be able to pass as a southerner; it was better that the men take him to be what he was, a borderlander. Only a fellow borderlander would be able to tell from his accent that he came from the north of the border rather than the south of it.

The younger guard's eyes were wide now; apparently he had some knowledge of Border Koretian. Switching quickly back to Common Koretian, Quentin-Andrew said, in the same quiet voice as before, "Are you two mad? Do you think I'd venture into the residence at this time of night? I wish to live long enough to complete my service to the Jackal, and entering his quarters uninvited would shorten my lifespan considerably. I thought" – he allowed the word to linger – "that you might be interested in what has happened to the other guard."

There was a moment's pause before the sublieutenant said, "Stay on alert, Orrick." The younger guard, still chewing on his lip, nodded and placed his spear in guard position across the doorway. Quentin-Andrew, without waiting to see whether the sublieutenant was following, turned and began walking rapidly back the way he came.

As he rounded the corner he felt the older guard join him at his side. "Sublieutenant Roe of the Royal Residence Watch," the guard said breathlessly as he strove to keep pace with Quentin-Andrew. "Sir, I can't stay away from my post for long."

"This won't take long," said Quentin-Andrew grimly and pointed to the slumped body ahead.

Roe reached the guard's side with a swiftness that caused Quentin-Andrew to reassess his views on the training of the Jackal's soldiers. Within a very few moments, Roe had checked the guard's pulse, had found and sniffed the flask, and had dragged the guard's body into the light spilling in from the corridor. His inspection of the body was just as swift.

"Drunk on duty?" Roe said, in the voice of a man making a tentative hypothesis.

"That's what you're meant to think." It had taken Quentin-Andrew only a second to change his tactics; his revision of plans arose from Roe's careful inspection. Helpfully – since Roe would have found the spot in the next moment anyway – Quentin-Andrew turned the guard's head to reveal the small lump at the back. "Look at this," he said.

Roe's eyes rose toward the empty corridor; then he looked back toward the dark corridor they had just traversed. "Has anyone gone past you tonight?" Quentin-Andrew asked.

"No one, sir." Roe rose from the unconscious body. "His pulse is steady; he's not badly hurt. Sir, I left Orrick alone—"

"You're right, we shouldn't leave that entrance with a single guard. We can talk there."

Before Quentin-Andrew had finished his sentence, Roe had started racing back to his guard post. By the time that Quentin-Andrew arrived, Roe was completing his explanation to Orrick of what had happened. The sublieutenant looked over at Quentin-Andrew and said, as if he had been asked again, "No one has tried to come past us, sir, and we've been on watch for six hours."

"The entrance upstairs?" Quentin-Andrew spoke absentmindedly, as though his thoughts were elsewhere. This was not a hard feat, since he knew the answer to his own question.

"Locked at this time of night, sir, and within full view of the main corridor, which is always busy. No one could enter the royal residence in that way."

"In any case, the man we're looking for was planning to come through this entrance. He must have been scared away when I walked past, but he'll be back." Quentin-Andrew gave a small smile, the hardest exercise he had undergone all night, since he had to remember which face muscles to use. "Forgive me, sublieutenant, for interfering in business that is your own, but my guess is that we are dealing with one of my enemy colleagues. If that's the case, then the man we're waiting for is very dangerous and very clever. He'll be arriving here in disguise – he may already have been disguised for many weeks now. He may be a soldier you know and trust, perhaps even an official."

"Not even army officials can enter the residence unless we allow them to, sir," Roe said flatly.

"And your own officials? We should alert them to what has happened—"

"The Lieutenant of the Royal Residence Watch is in meeting with the Captain of the Palace Guard tonight," Orrick volunteered. His eyes had been darting from wall to wall all this time, as though anticipating the moment of confrontation. "They'll both be in the royal residence."

Quentin-Andrew nodded as though he had known this already, as indeed he had. "And my official, alas, is out on a mission; that means I report directly to the Jackal. So we can receive no help there."

"If we called an alert—" said Orrick eagerly.

"The spy would take alarm from the noise and escape," said Roe. "That's what you fear, isn't it, sir?"

"Worse than that. I fear that whichever official we contacted about this would turn out to be the spy himself." Quentin-Andrew allowed himself to slump dejectedly against the wall. "The only men I would absolutely trust in this palace are my fellow thieves, and they happen to be the only men who could track down this spy or assassin or whatever he turns out to be. The trouble is, only the Jackal knows how to contact the other thieves." He raised his eyes and held them steady upon Roe's. "I'm sorry, sublieutenant, but it appears that either you or Soldier Orrick will need to enter the royal residence to let the Jackal know what has happened."

Blood welled as Orrick bit into his lip; the younger guard looked quickly toward Roe. Roe was evidently well versed in stoic expressions, but he said quietly, "One man can't hold this entrance, sir. Do you have experience in guarding?"

"None, I'm afraid." Quentin-Andrew tried a self-deprecating smile, and then abandoned the effort. "I'm trained only to defend myself through a quick killing. I take it that what we need in this case is to capture the spy so that he can be questioned."

"Yes, sir." Roe kept his gaze fixed on Quentin-Andrew, and Quentin-Andrew was careful not to allow his own gaze to waver. Hidden in the palm of his right hand was his thigh-dagger; if this plan did not work, he would have to kill the guards after all, and he could not allow himself that pleasure tonight. Dead guards would cause greater excitement in the palace than unconscious ones.

After a moment, Roe eased Quentin-Andrew by saying, "I'm sorry, sir; we're under orders to remain at our posts until we are relieved. I'm afraid that you'll need to carry the news to the Jackal of what has happened."

"Well." Quentin-Andrew swallowed in an obvious manner, and then cleared his throat. "No doubt he has a guard at his door who can give the report—"

"No guard, sir; the Jackal doesn't need one. We're only here to protect the other residents of the royal residence." Roe stepped back from the doorway. "Don't worry, sir. If he hears you knock at the door, he'll take the time to learn who you are, and he has met you before."

"Very well." Quentin-Andrew was intensely aware of the passing minutes; he decided that it was time to look forceful again. Squaring his shoulders like a spy setting out on a difficult and possibly life-threatening mission, he said, "If he has any special orders for you, I'll report back. Otherwise . . ."

"No one will pass through this doorway, sir," Roe reassured him. "Not even the subcommander himself."

Quentin-Andrew nodded, adding in a quiet voice as he stepped by, "I'll let the Jackal know how well served he has been tonight." Then he was through the entrance, and he was able to let the dagger lie loose in his hand.

Too long, he thought; it had taken too long to pass that keen-eyed sublieutenant, and if Roe had possessed just a few years more of experience, Quentin-Andrew would not have been able to pass him at all.

Now, of course, Roe would never gain that experience. By this time next week, the sublieutenant would be dismissed or dead, depending on how heavily he was punished for tonight's mistake. But that was a matter of no interest to Quentin-Andrew.

He climbed two flights of steps, pausing only to scoop up a loose chip of marble that he felt underfoot. The stairs were unlit; if the stories about the Jackal were true, the god-man needed no extra help in negotiating the night darkness. At the top of the steps, Quentin-Andrew hesitated in the shadows. No sound came from the corridor except a soft exchange of men's voices to the right; that would be the Lieutenant of the Royal Residence Watch in meeting with his official. Aside from the Jackal, only the High Lord and his family lived in the royal residence. The Jackal's heir had moved from the palace many years ago, purportedly so that he could raise his son in quiet isolation from palace politics.

Quentin-Andrew threw the chip of marble forward into the lighted corridor, then waited. No guard came to investigate. After a moment, he eased his way into the corridor, looked quickly toward the closed doors to the right, and walked equally swiftly to the left, toward the door at the end of the corridor.

The door was unmarked, and was lit only by the glow of the golden stones of the corridor's outside wall. Quentin-Andrew tested the latch cautiously before he began edging the door open at the same speed that a middle-aged tortoise would use when it was in no great hurry. The door had opened little wider than a hand's span when Quentin-Andrew slid inside the chamber and closed the door swiftly and noiselessly.

The shutters in the room were closed; a moment passed before Quentin-Andrew was able to adjust to the patrol vision he had acquired as a child. There was little to see in any case: a table, a stool, a trunk, a bed, and the ruler of Koretia, curled up peacefully in his slumbers.

His back was to the door; Quentin-Andrew could just see the shimmer of his silver hair. The rest of his body was in clear outline against the light peering through the cracks of one of the shutters. On this warm summer's night, the Jackal had abandoned all blankets and lay only in his undertunic and breech-cloth. He looked as defenseless as a child. Not even a cushion lay under his head, the first place Quentin-Andrew had looked, since that was the best place to hide a dagger during the night. With his hand still curled around his thigh-dagger, Quentin-Andrew cautiously approached the ruler. He could see the other side of the Jackal's body now. The ruler's hands were empty and were beyond reach of any object or hiding place.

Quentin-Andrew raised his blade so that it was in line with the Jackal's heart. The light from the shutter shone upon the dagger, causing a small reflection to appear on the opposite wall. Hastily, Quentin-Andrew turned the blade so that the reflection now shimmered on the dark skin of the Jackal's arm. He raised his other hand in order to muffle the Jackal's mouth.

His hand never touched the Jackal. A roar filled the room like the sound of fire eating the heart of a building. Quentin-Andrew saw a shimmer of light move toward him like a falling star, and then he was staggering back, his heart pounding from the pain across his right cheek, where five wounds had suddenly appeared.

Only his quick retreat saved him. The next swipe of the claws, aimed at his heart, fell short of its target, and the Jackal made no immediate effort to follow him. Quentin-Andrew could see the god-man's body only dimly, but his face was as clear as midday: his eyes shone like sun-sparks, his whiskers curled back like butchers' blades, and his teeth were honed to arrow-points. His mouth was smiling.

Quentin-Andrew did not notice that his own body was shaking; he was busy judging the distance between himself and the door. The windows were too far away to escape through, but it made no difference. On second reflection, he realized that any movement he made toward an exit would result in his immediate death. He wished that he had paid closer attention to the stories about the Jackal, as well as to Roe's veiled warning.

The Jackal's roar had diminished, but now a snarling began, like a warning sign given by a beast that is too polite to attack without cause. In the same moment, Quentin-Andrew realized that his greatest mistake had been to enter this chamber armed. With rapid calculation he weighed the odds against himself, and then he dropped the thigh-dagger onto the floor.

The snarling stopped, but the Jackal remained as he was, poised on the edge of his toes, ready to pounce. With a voice as deep as thunder and as soft as flames, the god-man said, "How dare you come into my presence, you who lie under my curse."

Quentin-Andrew was finding it increasingly hard to breathe, and he laid a silent curse upon himself for seeking out the one man he had most cause to avoid. His voice was cool, though, as he replied, "I came to seek your advice, Jackal."

In an instant, the room turned dark. Blind to all images, Quentin-Andrew waited with tensed muscles, straining his spirit to hear the Jackal's approach. A light flared. Quentin-Andrew shaded his eyes, and when he lowered his arm, the god-man of Koretia stood before him, emptied of his power.

His human face was in no way remarkable, except for his eyes, which were as black as dead coals. His face contained many lines from old age; his body contained many lines too, but most of these were old blade wounds. Quentin-Andrew realized, with rueful belatedness, that even without his godly power, the Jackal might not have proved easy to overcome. He stood stiffly, enduring the Jackal's inspection, but his breath whistled in as the Jackal raised his left hand. On the nails of the Jackal's fingers, the blood from Quentin-Andrew's cheek was still fresh.

The Jackal laid his hand on that cheek, turning Quentin-Andrew's face gently toward the candlelight. He said quietly, "Your wounds need to be washed."

He turned away, and Quentin-Andrew, without being aware of the fact, closed his eyes momentarily and let his breath out in a long sigh. After a minute, the Jackal returned with a basin and washcloth in hand. He raised the cloth and began wiping the blood from Quentin-Andrew's cheek, which continued to burn sharply.

With his gaze focussed on his task, the Koretian ruler said softly, "May I know your name?"

Quentin-Andrew's eyes narrowed. "Don't you know it already?"

"I know only what my powers tell me: that you lie under the gods' curse." The Jackal stepped back, dipped his left hand briefly in the water, and wiped the remaining blood from his hand before placing the basin on the table nearby. As he did so, he carefully nudged three objects aside. Quentin-Andrew made note of them in an automatic manner.

The Jackal took several steps back. His body was now full in the light, and Quentin-Andrew could see the sagging skin and the slight tremble of old age. The ruler was still wearing nothing more than his undertunic. In the same soft voice as before, the Jackal said, "No one places men under the gods' curse in our day except the priests of the Unknowable God, and they have done so very few times over the years. I remember one case that occurred twenty years ago, when they placed the curse upon a borderlander because he had killed a twelve-year-old boy."

"I tortured him to death," Quentin-Andrew said in the emotionless voice of a man who simply wishes to clarify facts.

The Jackal made no immediate reply. In the interval of silence – which seemed empty and cold in comparison to the fire-roar that had come before – a pounding began upon the chamber door. "Jackal!" shouted an accompanying voice. "Jackal, are you in there?"

Quentin-Andrew's estimation of Roe rose another notch. It had not taken the sublieutenant long to recognize the flaws in Quentin-Andrew's story. Unhurriedly, the Jackal walked to the door and opened it slightly. A low-voiced discussion followed, and then the door closed. When the Jackal turned back, his expression had not changed. He said nothing more than, "You could teach my thieves a few lessons."

Quentin-Andrew shook his head. "My only skills in that respect are in breaking into buildings and breaking out of them."

"Breaking out of them," the Jackal murmured. Then: "How many times have you been arrested?"

Quentin-Andrew made no reply, and after a moment the Jackal nodded. "You tortured the boy to death," he said, as though there had been no pause in the conversation, "and because you were a boy yourself, not yet sixteen, you were beyond the penalties of the Chara's law. So the priests tried at first to talk with you, and when you refused to answer their questions, they tried to show you the evil you had done, so that you would turn your face once more toward the gods. But all that you said was, 'I cannot change what I am.' And so, seeing your cold refusal of all efforts to help you, they took the only path left to them: they placed you under the gods' curse and drove you from their midst."

Still Quentin-Andrew made no reply. His heart's pace was unhurried now, and his body was warm with the remembrance of what he had done. A smile entered into his eyes, and he saw the Jackal's expression flicker. Then the ruler asked, "Were you fond of the boy?"

"Why would I have been?" Quentin-Andrew replied tersely.

The Jackal raised his hands in a brief shrug. "I was trying to determine under what circumstances you would commit such a deed. Do you kill out of hatred? Or out of love?"

This was the first indication Quentin-Andrew had received that the Jackal's mind was as quick as his body. It took him a moment to formulate his reply. "I enjoy pain. Long pain most of all. And deep pain. If I know the person well, then I am able to drive the pain deeper."

"So," the Jackal said softly, "those who love you are in greatest danger from you."

"All are in danger from me."

The Jackal stood considering this. His hand was upon the table beside him, absentmindedly brushing the faded colors of a cluster of autumn leaves. After a while he asked, "Why have you come here?"

"Not to request that you lift the curse." Quentin-Andrew's reply was quick.

"No," said the Jackal slowly. "No, I can see that is not your purpose. If it were, then I would not have reacted to your entrance in the way that I did. In any case, the curse lies too deep for me to reach. Only you have the ability to burn it away."

Quentin-Andrew ignored these words, as well as the pleasure caused by the sudden image he held of a brand-iron on the fire, waiting to be used on a prisoner. The Jackal asked, "What is your purpose, then, in coming?"

Quentin-Andrew raised his eyebrows and said dryly, "Only to seek the advice of a fellow torturer on where I should ply my trade."

The silence was absolute, but for the whisper of the candle. For one dark moment, Quentin-Andrew thought that he saw the Jackal's eyes begin to glow. When the Jackal replied, though, his voice was matter-of-fact. "To advise you, I must know your skills."

"Then show me to one of your prisoners."

The Jackal shook his head. "I question all of the prisoners here myself, as you know. Our methods, I believe, differ too much to allow me to place a prisoner under your care. You must demonstrate your skills on me."

Quentin-Andrew wordlessly placed his hand on his cheek, where the blood was still drying. The Jackal said, "I will not use my powers against you. I promise you that."

"Promises can be broken," Quentin-Andrew replied.

After a moment, the Jackal nodded. Walking forward, he scooped Quentin-Andrew's thigh-dagger from the floor, cut his right palm, and swore his oath to the gods – the oath of a ruler, the most sacred kind possible. Then he handed Quentin-Andrew the dagger. Quentin-Andrew's hand was warm now, as was the rest of his body.

Two minutes were required, no more, before Quentin-Andrew had the Jackal stripped and in the position he wanted on the bed. It had taken that long only because Quentin-Andrew had needed time to extract from his thigh-pocket the face-cloth and thin cords that he always carried. Now he checked the Jackal's bonds and gag once more before placing the thigh-dagger edge-on against the Jackal's throat.

This was – Quentin-Andrew would readily have admitted – a hackneyed move, used by all the torturers of the Three Lands. Quentin-Andrew started this way partly because he knew that the greatest fear could be raised by using methods that would be expected by the prisoner. He started this way also because it gave him the opportunity to check the prisoner's heartbeat. The Jackal's was rapid – this was hardly surprising, given the manner in which Quentin-Andrew had subdued him. But the ruler's pulse remained steady; the Jackal stared up at Quentin-Andrew with unblinking eyes.

Quentin-Andrew let the dagger disappear into the palm of his hand. When it reappeared again, the hand was beyond the Jackal's view. A third reason for starting with the thigh-dagger was the weapon's reputation. The slightest touch of the razor-thin blade, it was said, could bring death. The Jackal, who was no doubt familiar with the blade's power, did not stir as Quentin-Andrew placed the dagger's edge against the spot he wanted. The flats of the blade were now pressed between two of Quentin-Andrew's fingers, allowing him to judge the blade's progress without moving his gaze from the Jackal's face. A moment later, he felt moisture against his fingers. A slight sound in the Jackal's throat confirmed that blood had been drawn.

Quentin-Andrew was watching the Jackal carefully, but the results were unsatisfactory. He could see the steady pulse of a blue tunnel of blood in the Jackal's neck. No, this was not the right place to start, Quentin-Andrew reflected. While most men in the Three Lands had no greater fear than the operation that Quentin-Andrew was delicately suggesting, the Jackal was a priest, and he had dedicated his manhood to the gods long ago. Nor would he react strongly to pain, Quentin-Andrew could see from his eyes. Some soldiers were like that, and the Jackal had fought in many battles.

Not very hopefully, Quentin-Andrew moved the dagger until it was over the Jackal's heart. The Jackal made no sound as the blade pricked him with a forewarning of death; his pulse was as even as though he were still sleeping peacefully. Only one method remained.

As it happened, it was Quentin-Andrew's favorite.

He stepped back and let his hand drift over to the table beside him. The movement of the Jackal's gaze told him that he had been right. Smiling now with his eyes, Quentin-Andrew said softly, "You have a reputation, Jackal, for being excessively fond of your blood kin."

The only change in the scene before him came from the slight increase in pace of the Jackal's breath. That was enough to encourage Quentin-Andrew to pick up the first object he touched. He said without looking down at it, "A love basket – the sort of gift that a woman might give to an elder kinsman. This came from your ward, I take it. Well, she is with the gods now; I will not disturb the dead." His hand moved. This time he did not bother to pick up the object, for the Jackal's eyes were following his progress. "A braided sling – a gift from one soldier to another. May I hazard a guess that this comes from your ward's son, Perry-John? Your heir is said to return your affection, Jackal. Nonetheless . . ." He changed course as the Jackal's gaze flicked toward the third object and then quickly back again. "Perhaps it would be best to leave him aside. Soldiers do not give me much pleasure, for they are used to pain. This is what gives me the most pleasure. . ." His hand moved until it reached the leaves. "Children," he finished softly.

The slight tensing of the Jackal against his bonds told Quentin-Andrew that he had guessed right again. He let his fingertips brush the dried leaves, reading from it what manner of victim he had chosen. "A leaf bouquet," he said, still watching the Jackal's face. "A very childish gift indeed, and young Dolan is now fourteen, only two years from manhood. Could it be, Jackal, that your heir keeps his son hidden because he is not the warrior that the son of an heir confirmed should be? But of course—" He lowered his voice and allowed the smile in his eyes to deepen. "'Hidden' is a word that only fools use, and you are not a fool, Jackal. You know that, despite all your efforts to keep Dolan's location secret, some men – even dangerous men – know where Dolan dwells. But that doesn't matter, does it? Young Dolan – innocent Dolan – sleeps peacefully tonight, knowing that he is immune from danger because the Jackal's powers will protect him."

The blue tunnel in the Jackal's throat leapt. A harder throbbing of blood followed. Picking up the leaves, Quentin-Andrew moved forward and said, yet more softly, "You are not fool enough to believe that Dolan is hidden from me, Jackal, but you are fool enough to have lifted the shield you use to protect him. Did you really think that I would come here to seek your advice?" He let his voice grow scornful. "I could have taken Dolan any time during the past few weeks if I had not known that your powers protect him. And so I came here and very politely asked you to swear that you would not use your powers while I demonstrated mine – and you agreed. You agreed to Dolan's doom." He crushed the leaves in his hands. They fluttered onto the Jackal's face, causing him to blink rapidly.

"You disappoint me, Jackal," said Quentin-Andrew, his scorn unshielded now. "I thought that you would be more clever than to allow a god-cursed man – a man who has already killed a boy – unlimited freedom to use his powers against you. Did you think I would not know that your own torture and death mean little to you? The pain of others is what hurts you, and because you hold the powers of the god of death, you will know when Dolan dies. You will lie hidden in this palace, bound not only by my bindings but also by your oath, and you will hear Dolan cry out to you for help. And you will do nothing. You will allow him to die in slow torment and anguish, the victim not of me, but of your foolish trust."

Slowly, like sunlight creeping across the ground, the movement finally came: the Jackal's hands, bound above him, curled into two fists. Quentin-Andrew stood a moment, savoring the move which he knew was sharper than the scream of an ordinary man, and then he cut the Jackal's bonds. He placed the dagger in the Jackal's hand and waited.

The Jackal said nothing as he removed his gag, wiped off the blood trickling down his leg, rose from his bed, and donned his breech-cloth and undertunic once more. He kept his eyes averted from Quentin-Andrew. Finally he handed the thigh-dagger to Quentin-Andrew and said quietly, "You did right to come to me."

Quentin-Andrew slid the dagger into his thigh-pocket and waited as the Jackal gently brushed the crumpled leaves off his bed. After a moment more, the ruler said, "I cannot take you under my care, for reasons that you know; nor can the Chara. You have been to Daxis, I take it?" Quentin-Andrew nodded, and the Jackal said slowly, "The young Queen is mild of heart and rarely visits her palace's dungeon; she gives freedom to her torturers to proceed as they wish. You were right not to take employment there."

He moved to the broad-ledged window and pulled the shutter back, allowing light to flood into the room. Quentin-Andrew stepped back into the shadows, which were beginning to grow cold again. The Jackal was now looking out toward the black border mountains, many miles away at the northern edge of Koretia. He said, "My thieves tell me that Emor's northern dominions are planning to rebel against the Chara."

He paused, and Quentin-Andrew, now emptied of the warmth he had felt before, said coolly, "That is of no surprise."

"Yes, the Chara has given his dominions just cause for such a rebellion; his hand is heavy upon them. If the rebellion comes, it will be led by the head of the army of the Marcadian dominion: a soldier who is a few years younger than yourself but who has already acquired a reputation in his trade. It is said that he is a man of honor and a firm disciplinarian. He allows his soldiers to create as much harm as is necessary to win their battles, but no more."

The Jackal turned. His face was now in shadow, but his silver hair glowed white against the moon. "My advice to you would be to place yourself under the care of this soldier. Make clear to him that you require boundaries in your work, and make clear that he must supervise you to be sure that those boundaries are kept. Within those boundaries, if the coming war follows the pattern of previous wars, you will have ample opportunity to use your talents, but you will do so under the watchful eye of a god-loving man. The rest will be up to you."

Quentin-Andrew nodded. He had finished placing the cords and spittle-soaked face-cloth into his thigh-pocket, and now he turned his face toward the dark door leading to the corridor.

"Quentin-Andrew."

Twenty years had passed since Quentin-Andrew had last heard his name, and it brought back the sting of his youth. As a young child he had been proud to hear his birth-name, since it evoked the father and grandfather for whom he had been named. His name had been the first thing he had discarded when he left the House of the Unknowable God.

Now he turned slowly, and only because the god-man had been released from his oath. But the Jackal's face remained human. The ruler said, "You have not asked me one question."

"Which is?" The words were spoken in a chill manner.

"Why the gods have done this to you."

A knife's edge of feeling, as thin and sharp as a thigh-dagger, touched the surface of Quentin-Andrew's spirit. It was immediately gone, and he watched without any great interest as the Jackal walked toward him. His thoughts, in fact, were on the tremor in the Jackal's body, and on the pleasure he would have received from increasing that tremor. He regretted that he had kept the Jackal bound for so short a time. As the ruler came closer, Quentin-Andrew made note of the blood tunnels standing out on his neck, the delicacy of his fingers, the gentleness of his eyes. Quentin-Andrew gave an inward sigh, like a bard who is deprived of making song.

"It is a question that all men ask," the Jackal said. "We all have some darkness that we must purge from our spirits, and purge again and again. Your darkness is greater than most. You must have asked yourself why the gods made you this way and why they have allowed you to remain this way. Surely, with just a touch of their powers, they could remove this demon that eats at you, destroying your spirit and forcing you to struggle with all your might to do what the average man can do with scarcely a thought. Why are you tortured with this burden? Why must you suffer this pain?"

"I suffer no pain," said Quentin-Andrew in the quiet voice of a man correcting a simple error. "Those who fall into my hands suffer pain."

The Jackal was silent a moment bore nodding. "Yes," he said, "it must seem that way to you. Even good has become evil to you now that evil has become good. But you would not have come to me tonight if the demon had entirely destroyed your spirit. You would not have sought my advice on how to contain your darkness. I will not tell you, as the priests of the Unknowable God did, that you can change yourself; the priests may have been wrong. Sometimes the gods lay burdens upon us that we must bear during our entire sojourn through the Land of the Living. But you must not forget that the Jackal's fire is able to turn evil to good. I think that you will have to suffer greatly before you recognize the full meaning of that teaching, but this much I can tell you now: the ability you possess, to read into the hearts of men and to break their spirits, can be used to serve the gods."

"I have no desire to serve the gods." Quentin-Andrew's voice was flat, uninterested. His mind was drifting away toward the north, where new work awaited him.

"Do you desire to serve your work?"

The Jackal's voice caught at him, pulling him back. Quentin-Andrew, who had been at the point of turning away, paused to look back at the Jackal, but the ruler said nothing more, so Quentin-Andrew replied finally, "I am skilled at my work."

A smile appeared on the Jackal's face suddenly, as though his intruder had made a statement that revealed much. Quentin-Andrew remembered, with some uneasiness, that the god-man of Koretia had a formidable reputation for breaking prisoners, though the methods he was said to use were highly unorthodox.

The Jackal did not seem concerned to press his advantage. All that he said was, "You didn't need to use your dagger on me, you know. Your skill goes beyond that."

A warm wind whistled into the room, scattering the remains of the leaves; it stung the drying blood on Quentin-Andrew's cheek. Quentin-Andrew said slowly, "Your powers give you the ability to question prisoners without use of instruments. Everyone knows that."

"It is a technique that is not dependent on my godly powers; all of my thieves are taught it. I could teach it to you."

Quentin-Andrew narrowed his eyes against the glare of the moonshine. "In exchange for what promise?" he asked.

The Jackal shook his head. "In exchange for no promise. It would be an answer to the question you failed to ask." He added more softly, "When a darkness lies within a man, sometimes the only way to let light shine within him is to break open that man's spirit. Once the spirit is broken, you can then bring light into the man and mend what you have broken. Those are the two skills I teach to my thieves: how to break a man's spirit with words only, and how to mend that spirit with more words. Once you have practiced the second skill, you will understand why you have been forced to undergo the torture that you live in, the torture so deep that you have shielded yourself from its effects." The Jackal gestured toward the ledge of the unshuttered window. "Come sit with me; I will explain to you this form of questioning."

Quentin-Andrew walked forward, squinting his eyes against the light that the Jackal was walking through. He was thinking that this visit was twice worth the trouble he had taken to come here. Yet even as he sat at the Jackal's side and listened with obedient attention to what he was being told, he felt the contempt inside him grow to a peak.

Was the Jackal really fool enough to think that Quentin-Andrew would ever use the second part of what he was being taught?
 

¶ Next Chapter

"Bard of Pain" is part of the Three Lands series. To receive notice of book publications and free online fiction, subscribe to one of Dusk Peterson's e-mail lists or blogs.

Post a comment about this story at Dusk Peterson's blog.

[ HOME ] [ The Three Lands ] [ E-mail ]

This text was originally published at duskpeterson.com as part of the series The Three Lands. Copyright © 2002, 2006–7 Dusk Peterson. Some rights reserved. The text is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution Noncommercial No Derivatives License (creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc-nd/3.0). You may freely print, post, e-mail, or otherwise distribute the entire text for noncommercial purposes, provided that you include this paragraph. The author's policies on derivative works and fan works are available online (duskpeterson.com/copyright.htm).