"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."