Fold Thunder

  Chapter Twenty-six

  The scream ricocheted off the unfinished paneling. Dag let the broken finger drop back to the desk where Sammeen lay. The dark wood of the desk had drunk up the blood so that it was almost impossible to make out a stain. Between them had grown up the strange intimacy between torturer and tortured.

  “Now,” Dag said, “you don’t seem to like fingers, probably because all you can think about is how you’ll ever handle those fine silks again, or tumble those Jaecan ambers, or count coins. Ever seen a man with broken fingers?” It was nice to speak to someone else in Jaecan again, to be able to fully express himself. The familiar language seemed to intimidate Sammeen as well, for whatever reason, and Dag was glad for that small advantage.

  Sammeen whimpered into the silence, trying to speak through the gag made of his pristine, white silk shirt.

  Dag bent another of Sammeen’s fingers back. The other man started screaming at Dag’s first touch. Dag grimaced. He held the finger back just at threshold between pain and damage for a long moment. Then he let it go.

  “Want to start talking now?”

  Sammeen nodded.

  Dag suppressed a sigh of relief. The man’s catlike mewls had ridden Dag’s nerves from the first cut. He pulled the gag free and helped Sammeen drink from a bottle of wine that Dag had found in the blackwood desk. Sammeen coughed once, letting out another moan as the movement jostled broken bones and open wounds.

  They had worked past the first round of lies; Sammeen had held out longer than Dag had expected. Now it was time for the truth, or whatever Sammeen thought Dag wanted to hear most. That was the fatal flaw in torture, breaking people. Unlike the two Apsians that Dag had butchered on this trip, Sammeen’s Jaecan coloring brought flashbacks of Fawda even more strongly to Dag’s mind. This is the price for revenge, Dag thought as he looked at the bleeding, broken man before him.

  After a sip for himself, Dag set the bottle down. “So, start from the beginning.”

  “Please,” Sammeen whispered. A few hours of screaming would wreck anyone’s throat, Dag thought. I wonder if Fawda would sound like this, if he spoke.

  Dag let the tip of the dagger rest on a patch of whole skin over Sammeen’s breastbone. “We’ve just stopped,” he said. “Don’t make me start working again. I’m tired, and you don’t want me working on you tired.”

  Sammeen worked his lips soundlessly for a moment. “Brech sent me here,” he said. “About five years ago. He bought me out of one of the prison holdings along the border of Nilgaz. He told me to find employment with one of the largest shipping houses—it didn’t matter which—and make it my own.”

  “Looks like you did that pretty well,” Dag said. “You were running that office.”

  “Yeah.” He paused, seeming to recover himself. “Some more wine, please?”

  “Sorry,” Dag said. “I need you awake in case you need more encouragement. Keep going.”

  “I did everything he asked,” Sammeen said. “Bonacore hired me as a porter, and within the year I was working in the office. A year ago he put me in charge of the whole affair.”

  “A man like that made his own fortune?” Dag said. “Sounds like some pampered lordling, letting other people handle his work and his money.”

  “Don’t underestimate Bonacore,” Sammeen said. “He had turned his attention to politics, trying to engineer the next one of the Six Fathers to be elected—to have him in his pocket. But he made sure to keep an eye on the business; he found out things I was doing for Brech—small things, at first, contraband wine and dyes that I was sending back to Greve Sindal, then larger stuff—smuggled amber that sold for huge profits that I sent back to Greve Sindal, massive amounts of coin that poured into Brech’s accounts here in the banking-houses. Bonacore had me then; I’m not Apsian, I have no right to a trial. He could slit my throat, dump me in the harbor in front of the watch, and if he had a single paper that made me look like a smuggler, they would have clapped him on the shoulder, bought him a bottle of wine, and sent him on his way.”

  “You are a smuggler,” Dag reminded him. “But all Apsians are bastards; I get the point.”

  “Do you have any idea what it’s like to be constantly under someone’s thumb?” Sammeen asked. “I haven’t been free since I became a man; they sent me out to the camps before I left childhood, and I’ve been Brech’s puppet ever since.”

  “I know better than you might expect,” Dag said. “It doesn’t change anything though. We’re all slaves to something.”

  “Slaves?” Sammeen said. “Maybe. Hard to believe a man that can do this type of thing to someone,” he gestured at his mangled body with one bound hand, “is a slave to anything that he can tie down.”

  It was a common thought among the tortured, this idea that the torturer held all the power. That was the bitter secret, though, that Dag—that every torturer—knew—that in the end, he built his own prison, dug his own grave, with every incision, every burning brand. That he could exist only in those moments of suffering, so that pain became a key to unlocking a part of the self, even as it wrapped tighter chains around the torturer. That the bridge between the self and the other became a razored path that cut both ways.

  Dag grinned. “Not the first time someone’s tried to make me mad,” he said. “Not a bad effort, I guess.” He pressed lightly on the dagger. Sammeen groaned from behind clenched teeth. “Stay on point, friend. Brech’s puppet.”

  “Yeah. Not for long, though, once Bonacore started finding out about the smuggling. He was furious, at first. It could have gotten him and his family sent to the galleys—in theory, at least. I thought he would kill me.”

  “And?”

  Sammeen swallowed. Tears stood in his eyes; if they were an act, the man was surprisingly resilient. “And he took my wife instead. Kidnapped her. We’d been married less than a month.”

  “My condolences,” Dag said. He meant it, in a way.

  “Well, not much for it now. If you leave me alive, Bonacore will make sure to finish what you started. Tamasa must be dead, anyway; in spite of his promises, I can’t believe Bonacore would keep her alive for long.”

  “What did he want?”

  “At first, just to know what Brech was doing. Then he wanted a cut of the profits—a big cut. Brech started asking questions, and I lied. I don’t think he ever believed me, although he kept using me. That’s when Brech started going through Sipir as well—he said two hands were better than one.”

  “And who’s Sipir?”

  “A terror,” Sammeen said. “A smuggler, in name, although he’s something of a cross between a fuladim and a demon, Ishahb burn him. He took over the western harbor from a boss named Seaweed, and he damn near broke the south harbor’s gang, although they might just be holed up somewhere. Whatever he is, he’s a bloody mercenary, and I imagine Brech has paid him a small fortune for his help.”

  “That get your blood up?” Dag asked. “You decide to throw in with Bonacore all the way, get rid of me when I showed up?”

  “What choice did I have?” Sammeen asked. “He has Tamasa. Had. Ishahb burn me, I’ve had the black flame for so long that she probably is dead.”

  “So what’s Bonacore want? The smuggling to go on, with Brech out of the picture?”

  “Did you know they say Brech is a sorcerer?” Sammeen said. “I hope he is; when he came to the camps, one of the men said that Brech can track anyone across the world, that he can see your secrets, hear your thoughts. He has eyes like the sea; I didn’t know what that meant until I came here. Do you know what it means?”

  “His eyes are green, and I don’t care about the burning sea. Ishahb burn me, either you lost more blood than I thought, or that wine was strong. What did Brech want?” Dag said.

  “Green,” Sammeen said. “Sea-green. It means they are merciless, and cold, and full of the dead and the dying—water that poisons life, seeking more, always more.”

  It sounded too close to what Dag himself had thought. He tapp
ed Sammeen with the blade. “Stay focused, friend. What did Brech want?

  “Brech was going to send men in; disguised as sailors, when the ports were so busy with Semença that no one could keep track of them. He didn’t say how many. He had us plunder and sink ships from Sabi that were bringing weapons, to arm the men he said. It must have been for a coup, although he didn’t say so.”

  “So where are those men?” Dag thought he knew the answer.

  “Dead,” Sammeen said with a grim smile. “Bonacore bought up his own mercenaries, Jaecan, and brought them in first. None of Brech’s men ever made it here.”

  “Does Brech know?”

  “That depends on what he sees with those green eyes of his,” Sammeen said. “If he’s a sorcerer, he might know everything. If he’s not—well, I haven’t told him. If he sees like the sea, who knows? Maybe he sees that only that endless pull, the slow erosion of everything. That could drive a man mad.”

  “You sound like you’re burning mad yourself. What about Sipir?”

  “Sipir wasn’t part of this plan; I was using Bonacore’s ships, so there was no need. It’s much easier to smuggle men than it is amber.”

  “That seems true,” Dag said. “What did Bonacore want with those soldiers? Why bring them in? He could have stopped Brech’s men another way.”

  “Don’t you get it?” Sammeen asked. He let out a weak, pained laugh. “Bonacore liked the idea so much that he decided to use it himself. He’s going to try and overthrow the other Fathers during Semença, when they’re all assembled. One strong push, and the city will be his.”

  Dag swore. He stepped out into the hallway. Sammeen was an idiot, in more ways than one, but he had managed to bring Brech’s plan crashing down. If Bonacore had his own men in the city, and Brech had none, then Dag was putting his neck into his own noose. Might be there’s a way to salvage something though, Dag thought. Kill the Kestrel, take out Bonacore, and that should be enough for burning lord Brech. He’d have to give me the names. He could burning walk in himself after that and they’d hand him the city with a smile.

  Dag trotted downstairs and found the two giant brothers sitting outside the front door. Two large skins of wine sat, empty, next to Etrar. Even from where he stood, Dag could smell nam imbu on Bear, and the huge man’s glassy eyes—and the thin line of blood that ran from one nostril—confirmed it.

  “You two up for another job?”

  “Until we leave tomorrow,” Etrar said, his words thick with wine. “Got to be on the ship tomorrow.”

  “That’s perfect,” Dag said. “I want you to take on a new crew member. Where are you sailing?”

  “Akiivka, I think, but then, the bloody captain could have a dream tonight and change his mind. Man’s got as much salt as well-water.”

  “Akiivka is great,” Dag said. “Will he take another man? If you two take him aboard?”

  “Might be,” Etrar said. Bear still stared off into space. “If nothing else, we make him a stowaway, and he spends the rest of his life in the galley.”

  “Not really what I want,” Dag said. “This man’s been a slave long enough. Still, if that’s what it takes, see if you can’t break him out when you get to Akiivka. I’ll make it worth your while to see he’s a free man.”

  “You trust a couple of sailors you barely know to take a man halfway around the world and keep him free?” Etrar asked. “You’ve got the Day Sister’s own heart.”

  “Not likely,” Dag said. “And I doubt the man would think the same. You’ll do it?”

  Etrar shrugged. “Sure, unless I get too drunk to remember.”

  Dag grinned. “Got any nam imbu left? He’s not going to be in any condition to walk, let alone work, for a few days.”

  Etrar snagged a vial—no longer than Dag’s little finger—from the ground near Bear’s feet and held it up to the light.

  “This one’s still good,” he said. “Bear’s not going to notice.”

  He tossed the vial to Dag, who caught it. Half the vial would put Sammeen into the same torpor that Bear was enjoying, numbing the pain and, even more importantly, keeping him from crying for help or, if he were truly foolish, struggling against Etrar and Bear.

  “We’re taking that guy you’ve been working on?” Etrar asked. “He made some pretty awful noises; makes me think you’re not too good of a friend.”

  “Go buy some rope and canvas,” Dag said. “See if your captain will take him as a passenger at first; if not, make sure he stays alive, whether as sailor or galley slave.”

  He stumbled back upstairs, leg aching, suddenly fighting a wave of fatigue that threatened to drown him. He found, to his surprise, that he did trust the giant brothers. Etrar, at least, and Bear if he were sober. He couldn’t put a finger on it, but Etrar seemed too educated, and too dedicated to his brother, to be just one more cut-throat.

  Eyes shut, Sammeen stirred when Dag entered the room. “Please,” he whispered. “No more. I told you everything.”

  Broken. When Fawda did speak, it was almost the same tone of voice, sometimes the same words. Spoken in Jaecan, the words cut at Dag’s soul. Ishahb burn me for doing this to another Jaecan, he thought. Even if the man lit the black flame himself.

  Propping Sammeen’s head up with one arm, Dag set the open vial to the man’s lips.

  “Drink this.”

  Sammeen drank, eyes still closed. He sputtered once; the smell of the nam imbu, like piss mixed with lemon, stung Dag’s nostrils even at this distance. When the vial was half-drunk, Dag pulled it away. Sammeen let out a single, low moan.

  “Kill me,” he said, his voice slurred by the nam imbu. Then his breathing evened out, and a wide dribble of blood ran from his nose.

  Dag capped the vial and sat down to wait. He hated himself for what he had done, again. A part of him wanted to think that his inner anguish equaled, or even exceeded, the wounds he had inflicted on Sammeen. Looking at the precision cuts, the torn flesh, the broken fingers, Dag doubted he could ever feel guilty enough for that, though. As the waiting dragged out, Dag stood and began tending to the drugged man’s wounds, trying to ignore Sammeen’s whimpers. Nam imbu did not always bring sugared dreams.

  “Why we taking him?” Etrar asked. He held loose coils of rope in one hand, and a folded sheet of canvas hung over his other arm. “Just dump him in the harbor. He won’t even wake up to take a breath; I know—Bear almost drowned in a wineskin once.”

  “And you pulled him out?” Dag asked.

  “He’s here, isn’t he?”

  “Why follow him around? He doesn’t seem to appreciate it, and nam imbu’s nasty; I don’t think I’ve ever seen someone as deep into it as your brother walk away.”

  “Guess that’s my answer, then?” Etrar said. “You don’t kill him, I don’t leave Bear?”

  “Not really an answer,” Dag said. “I don’t have an answer. But I’m guessing, the way you talk, you’re not really a sailor either.”

  “Oh, I’m a sailor all right,” Etrar said. “Doesn’t mean I have to be stupid, too.”

  “Just crazy,” Dag said. “And blessed by whatever gods you worship, to survive out there this long.”

  Etrar shrugged, hefted the rope. “Help me tie him up and we’ll go. The captain’s a fair enough sort; if I tell him the man bought passage, he’ll believe me. As long as the coin holds out.”

  They worked quickly. Disgust covered Etrar’s face at Sammeen’s wounds, and Dag flushed in spite of himself. Neither man spoke, though. Etrar tied the last knot in the rope-and-canvas bundle that Sammeen had become and then flipped the man over one shoulder.

  Dag handed him the half-empty bottle. “Give him the rest of that,” Dag said. “To give him a little time to heal.”

  Etrar nodded. “He needs to see an herb-hand first, captain won’t take him like this. You messed him up bad.”

  “The wounds are superficial,” Dag said. “Nothing that will really impair him after a bit of time.” He pulled out two heavy gold deng from h
is own purse and gave them to Etrar. “Help him as much as you can, once you reach Akiivka, or wherever you’re going.”

  “He deserves a new life?” Etrar said.

  “Not really,” Dag said. “But do it anyway.” And maybe then I can go home and face Fawda. “You can handle him and Bear both?”

  “Not a problem.”

  “Take care then.”

  “Might be worth telling you,” Etrar said. “There’s been a couple Gut-rats down there watching me and Bear. I think they’re itching pretty bad to get inside.”

  “Thanks,” Dag said. “Where are they?”

  “Across the street, sitting on the edge of the quay. They act like they’re just talking, but one of them’s always got an eye plastered on this building.”

  “Looks like I have some more people to talk to, then,” Dag said.

  Etrar started out of the room. “I’m getting Bear out of here, then,” he said. “One crossbow bolt to the leg is about all I’m good for anymore.”

  “Thanks,” Dag said.

  “Can’t say I’d do it again,” Etrar said. “This is foul stuff, foul. I’d not be surprised if you piqued Bel’s interest with all of this. I’ll hope the Day Sister smiles on you.”

  Bloody Bel. Half-man, half-beast, mindless and murderous in some accounts, cunning and cruel in others. The Apsians had strange gods. And the Day Sister, the mother, the healer, the life-giver. The protector of the weak. She had not smiled on Fawda.

  “And on you,” Dag said.

  The big man vanished down the hall with Sammeen. Dag pushed over the desk, knocked over the chair, and began scattering papers and books as best he could. Time to make the newcomers curious.