The Diplomat (18 page)

“Ooh, such teeth!” Calan grinned. “Don’t worry, we all have her best interest at heart. That’s why we won’t rest until we bring this traitor to justice. Isn’t that right, Elise?”

“Get out!”

“How unfair. Here I am, working hard to defend us, and all you can do is berate me. Oh, don’t bother opening your nasty mouth again, I’m leaving.” Calan walked to the doorway, where he stood with one hand pressed against the frame. “Sister, perhaps you can clarify something for me. You aren’t still being stubborn about this marriage proposal, are you?”

Elise remained silent, her fists clenched.

“I’ve been trying to think of a way to convince you to be gracefully wed and leave this court in peace.” Calan winked. “Perhaps something will come to me.” He shut the door with enough force to shake the glass jars on Elise’s workbench.

The scowl Elise had worn for Calan collapsed into a look of frightened petulance. “He knows. He’s going to blackmail me with it.”

“Even if he suspects it, he can’t yet prove it,” said Rema. Her stomach still churned from disgust at Calan’s unwelcome intrusion. “Don’t worry. I won’t let him hurt you.”

“You’re going to help me, even after what I’ve done? Are you saying I’m forgiven?”

“You were desperate. Of course you’re forgiven.” Rema hugged the pillow closer to her body. “Can you find me something to wear? I need to get to the prisoner quickly. With enough time, Calan can make him say anything.”

“The truth is already bad enough.” Elise sank onto the bed. “And I was serious when I said you need to rest. The wound isn’t serious, but your body is badly shaken.”

“Even if I wobble a little, I’ll be fine.”

Elise touched her fingertips to Rema’s shoulder. “Can’t we just go back to where we were before?”

Their lips had been so close…what would have happened without Calan’s interruption? “We’d best not.”

Elise sighed and began to rummage through the clothes tossed about the room. She smoothed the rumples out of a purple blouse and handed it to Rema, who pulled the garment over her head. “It smells like your perfume,” said Rema, wriggling her arms through the sleeves.

“It’s so baggy on you.” Elise placed her hands upon her stomach. “Perhaps I really am as fat as a pig.”

“Don’t speak that way. You’re perfect.” Rema rose to her feet, grimacing as her back and knees complained together. “Does Loric know what you’ve done?”

Elise shook her head.

“And the Lyornans. Did you send them the information anonymously?”

“I didn’t sign the letter, but they’re not stupid. I’m sure they figured it out.” Elise coiled a strand of hair around her fingers. “You do realize that if you turn me in, my parents will wash their hands of me and sign your treaty. Then you could go home.”

“You’d have to endure terrible shame. I couldn’t do that to you. When you leave this kingdom, it will be with your head high.”

“Rema.” Elise put her arms around Rema’s waist and held her close. Elise’s body proved alluringly soft, as one might expect of a woman so voluptuous, and Rema fought the desire to push them both to the bed. “There’s a message in your eyes that gives me hope. But I want to hear you say the words I’m longing for. I want to know we’re thinking about the same thing.”

“One thought at a time.” Rema slid out from the embrace. “Did you want to come with me to confront Calan? You’re every bit as fierce as me.”

Elise laughed, and the low, sensual sound quickened Rema’s pulse. “I’m flattered, but I’d be more valuable here. There’s something I can arrange that might help us.”

“If nobody is harmed, then do it.”

“I don’t want to see anybody hurt, most of all you. Please be careful.”

“I always am.” They lingered for a moment longer, gazing upon one another. As Rema finally retreated to the door, Elise opened a book on her desk and began traversing the room, picking through her flasks and vials. What manner of sorcery did she have planned? After the painful warning from the black pendant, it was clear Elise was capable of some uncanny enchantment.

As Rema descended the stairs, her back itched, and she struggled not to touch it. It was rare she endured such violence. Yet despite what the Narandane had done to her, Rema felt nothing but pity in return. Diplomats were taught early what to expect from torturers, the numerous techniques they used to impose their cruelty upon both mind and flesh, and Bannon’s eyes had suggested a man who knew them all.

Chapter Thirteen

The front court had been cleared, and the palace doors shut and sealed by a heavy wooden bolt. Yorin, Muhan and Loric stood engaged in a lively discussion. The moment Rema’s boots struck the flagstones, they broke off their conversation. “Rema!” Loric dashed forward and clutched her hands. “Should you be up?”

“I’m fine. Just a little shaken. Muhan, Loric, it seems I owe you my life.”

Muhan smiled. “Perhaps, but I’m too modest to lay claim to it. Let us hear the story from our prince here.”

“It really was more him than me.” Loric scuffed the flagstones with his heel as a new shyness stole over him. “We were breakfasting in the corner of the gardens. I noticed you following the Narandane moving into that nasty dark grove, and I mentioned it to Muhan, who said that we ought to check on you. We were just in time. But honestly, it was Muhan who saved you. He just grappled the man to the ground. It was amazing!”

“I trained as a wrestler when I was a younger man,” said Muhan. “I painted my chest, stood shirtless in the marketplace and challenged passersby to throw me to the ground. So as not to go hungry, I became quite good at it.”

“You’re a man of many skills,” said Rema. “But don’t downplay what you did, Loric. You’re a hero.”

Loric lowered his scarlet face. “I’m just glad you’re alive. When we told Yorin what had happened, he was so worried for you that he pulled his remaining hairs out.”

Yorin coughed and turned his head away. The sight of his embarrassment was so uncharacteristic that Rema was unable to resist a giggle, which mortified her in turn—the great Remela, giggling?

“Look at your faces,” said Muhan with evident satisfaction. “Even I couldn’t produce a more striking red.”

“Never mind that,” said Yorin. “The end result is that Calan has the prisoner in the dungeons, and he’s wringing secrets out of him. I don’t want to know how.”

Rema grimaced. Just as she had anticipated. “Can you take me to the dungeons? Someone else needs to be there, if only to make sure that this man isn’t ill-treated.”

“Are you serious?” said Loric. “He tried to kill you! He deserves everything he gets.”

“Diplomats by their very nature resolve injustice without violence. In any event, we should be merciful even toward assassins. Who knows what kind of pressure that man was under? I want to talk to Domyr too, if possible.”

“He’s under guard,” said Yorin. “We’re being very polite about it, just in case he really is who he says. We don’t need to make an enemy of Narandor.”

“Wise of you. Now, the dungeons, if someone will be so kind?”

“Yes, yes.” Yorin waved his hand in a frustrated gesture. “But if you falter even for a single step, I’m having you taken straight back to your room.”

Rema followed Yorin through an archway and into an unfamiliar corridor, which was lit by a series of torches casting an uncertain glow across the irregular stone walls. The carpet running the hall’s length was worn right to the stone. It ended at a cracked archway, behind which a deep stairwell dropped into shadow.

Yorin took a torch from a bracket, and he and Rema descended into the darkness. Her back ached, but she concealed her discomfort. A far greater pain was presently being visited upon another, and as her father had taught her, she held only mercy in her heart.

They emerged into a grey-bricked corridor lined with cell doors. Yorin lifted his torch ahead of them, sending a wavering finger of light into the hall. Several dim lanterns lit the hallway further along. “The dungeons,” he said. “Usually empty, as prisoners of war are kept in the forts.”

Rema didn’t need to be told where Calan and Bannon were; the prisoner’s wails were audible. “I’ll continue alone. You inform the King and Queen that I was attacked and barely escaped with my life. Use this incident to argue that the deal must be signed before Lyorn makes another attempt. Stress that this proves your enemies fear what our alliance will bring.”

“I admire the way you turn every little thing to your advantage. Be careful as you go. There’s rats down here.”

A howl echoed down the corridor. “There’s much worse than rats.”

Rema followed the prisoner’s shrieks until she reached a wooden door at the end of a row of cells. The door was ajar, and torchlight shone red behind it. She descended a short flight of stairs and entered a torture chamber, as chilling and unpleasant as every other of its kind. Sinister devices jutted from the shadows, and chains hung from the ceiling in macabre loops.

The Narandane hung from two boards arranged in the shape of an X. He had been stripped to the waist, livid wounds striped his chest, and meat hooks had been embedded in the flesh of his shoulders. A chain ran from the hooks, around a pulley and to a handle, where Bannon stood waiting.

Calan was before the cross, his face expressionless. He inclined his head as Rema entered. “Ah, it’s you. Wanted the satisfaction of seeing your attacker suffer, I suppose.”

“Nobody should find satisfaction in this.” Sickened, Rema found herself unable to move from the final step into the oppressive gloom of the chamber. “What are you doing to him?”

“A simple device,” said Bannon. “I turn the lever, like so.” He spun the handle and the chain tightened. The Narandane’s skin pulled, taut and grotesque, and he screamed. Sweat and tears flowed down his cheeks.

“Stop it!” said Rema. “For the love of the gods…”

“There’s only one god in these parts, and he’s a real bastard.” Bannon grinned and released the handle. The chains sagged, and the man whimpered as his flesh snapped back to his body. “This is actually one of the tamer methods at my disposal. I think Calan’s gone soft.”

Calan only grimaced. Looking from one man to the other, Rema frowned—nothing in Bannon’s demeanor suggested he considered himself a subordinate. He was working for the promise of money or power, surely, not from any sense of loyalty. She put the observation aside for later. “Calan, there’s no point torturing him. People under torture will say anything.”

“Better than nothing,” said Calan. “Are you telling me that your Emperor doesn’t condone torture?”

“Ormun isn’t here. I am, and I don’t.”

“You just don’t want me to confirm that your beloved is a traitor. Bannon, turn the handle.”

Bannon shrugged at Rema and gave the handle several quick twists. Rema covered her mouth as her nausea rose. In her service to Ormun she’d seen several more terrible sights, but this was still a vile torment by any measure. It seemed as if the prisoner’s flesh would tear at any moment, yet the hooks continued to rise.

“Tell me,” said Calan. “Who leaked the information to you?”

“I don’t know,” said the man, staring at Rema with vacant eyes. “Please.”

“Keep turning.” The chains clanked, the hooks lifted and the man screamed. “Answer again.”

“The letter wasn’t signed! We don’t know who sent it!”

“Oh? You must have some idea.” Calan stroked his chin, watching with indifference.

“Why would we care who sent it?” The man’s breath came in short gasps. “All that mattered was the message.”

“Possibly true, but we’ll punish you anyway. Bannon.”

Rema moved over to Calan and grabbed his arm. “Calan, stop this.”

“Don’t touch me,” said Calan, pushing her away. She stumbled, still uneasy on her legs, and slipped to her knees. The stone floor stung her hands, and she was unable to hold back a hiss of pain. Calan laughed. “Ah, the weakness of women. You might dress like a man, but you’ll never be more than your sex. I can only imagine how much you must envy me.”

“Oh, yes.” Rema used the gaps in the masonry to pull herself up. “When I return to Arann, I’ll put on clothes of pure silk, sit in the parlor of my mansion, pour priceless wine into a sapphire goblet and stare out over the golden sea. And I’ll think, if only I were Calan, prince of the dung heap.” As she spoke, she watched Bannon, who gazed back with comprehension in his pallid eyes.

“You won’t be smiling in a moment.” The tight vein at Calan’s temple pulsed, and he turned back to the Narandane prisoner. “Did you happen to see the letter?”

“Yes, lord,” said the prisoner. “Yes, I saw it.”

“Good man! And would you recognize the handwriting?”

“I’m not sure…”

“Bannon.” Calan lifted his hand.

“No! Don’t! I would! I would!”

“Excellent. Let me show you something.” Calan took a piece of paper from his pocket and held it toward Rema so she could see the eccentric, looping handwriting.

“It was you.” Rema’s stomach twisted. “You went into my room. You took that letter from my trunk.”

Calan lifted the corner of his mouth in a sardonic grin. “What a mad accusation. But I suppose I should expect madness from a woman who sleeps in stairwells like a homeless peasant.” He held the letter before the suffering prisoner. “Do you recognize this hand?”

The man opened his mouth, and his lips began to form a word. No sound emerged from his throat except a long, dry whistle. The prisoner seemed as astonished by the result as everyone else, and Calan growled. “I said, do you recognize it? Tell me!”

The prisoner wheezed again, his eyes stretching with fear. “Bannon!” said Calan. “Encourage him.”

The hooks strained the meat of the man’s back, yet instead of crying out, he issued a plaintive gasp of empty air. “I don’t think he’s faking,” said Bannon. “There’s no man that can stop himself screaming.”

“Keep turning. Make him speak!”

Bannon turned the handle again. The man’s back had become so distended that Rema had to look away, yet still the prisoner only produced the same brittle silence. “He’s lost his voice,” said Bannon. “You’ll just kill him if I keep doing this.”

“Fuck it. Release the handle.” The lever whipped in circles as Bannon let it go, and the man dropped heavily back into the cross, tears and sweat pattering on the stone beneath him. “Talk to me!”