Chapter 44: The Problem with After-Dinner Plans

The farther they descended beneath the Roscaire estate, the less the place smelled like a respectable noble household and the more it smelled like a glorified hole in the ground. The delicious aromas of roast duck and spiced wine disappeared, giving way to wet stone, rusty iron, and stale air.

Lioren let out a long, theatrical groan that echoed off the granite steps, rolling his shoulders as if carrying the weight of the entire northern province.

"I genuinely despise this," Lioren complained, his boots making a dull thud against the damp stones. "I’ve just eaten two helpings of venison pie and half an almond tart, Caldrin. My stomach is blissful. I should be sitting in the library by a roaring hearth with a glass of plum brandy, or perhaps helping Xavion decide where to put his seventeen new boxes of handkerchiefs. But no. Instead, I’m wading through the dark to talk to an incompetent street rat who couldn’t stalk a blind cow through a barn."

Behind him, Caldrin trod down the winding stairs with the heavy, measured rhythm of a man used to night shifts, his iron pauldrons clanking softly against his leather harness.

"Unfortunately, my lord, a good dinner doesn’t excuse you from your duties, My Lord," Caldrin observed deadpan.

"You’re no fun," Lioren grumbled as they turned into a dimmer stretch of corridor, the torches growing scarce along the walls. "Now, how’s our guest? Still alive, or has he bled all over my lovely stone floor?"

"He’s alive," Caldrin replied smoothly. "We had his legs bandaged and his hands cauterized, as you instructed. We gave him two cups of boiled willow tea so he wouldn’t pass out from the fever before you had your chat. Letting him die of a simple rot before he gives us a name would create far more headaches than it’s worth."

"Mmm. True enough," Lioren hummed, adjusting his vest sleeves. He paused on the bottom landing, where the corridor narrowed into a dark passage lined with reinforced oak doors. "Has he started singing yet?"

"Not a word," Caldrin said. "The guards said he’s been staring at the far wall since we locked him in. Keeps his jaw set tight."

Lioren sighed, shaking his head with mild, weary pity. "Of course he hasn’t. Poor fellow probably thinks if he stays quiet for twelve hours, someone’s going to ride through the gates on a white horse to rescue him. Or that I’ll grow bored and let him walk out the front door with a polite apology and a bag of silver."

Therin, who had been quietly following behind them, glanced between Lioren and Caldrin.

"I must admit," Therin chimed in, "I am somewhat curious about this man. Though given his performance today, the standards for espionage in the capital must have fallen to truly catastrophic lows."

"Don’t get your hopes up for an arch-villain, Therin," Lioren warned, waving a hand. "I looked at his face in the alley before I pinned him. He’s as ordinary as a turnip. Brown hair, average nose, cheap leather coat. Apart from his spectacularly atrocious skill at trailing a group across an open square, there isn’t a single interesting thing about him."

"Trailing a former general and a Grand Duke through crowded markets only to get pinned in a dead-end alley," Therin remarked. "It is hardly the sort of resume one presents to a high court spymaster."

"Precisely," Lioren chuckled, though there was zero humor in his eyes. "A complete embarrassment to the craft."

They stopped before the third door on the left. A heavy iron bar rested across two iron brackets, held in place by a brass padlock the size of a man’s fist. A guard standing watch near the torch bracket immediately snapped a crisp salute, pulling out his keys and sliding the iron bolt back with a heavy, scraping CLANG.

The oak door creaked open on oil-soaked hinges.

The cell was narrow and cold, the darkness so thick that the stone walls were difficult to make out. Only a little light filtered through the iron grate in the door, carried in from the torches burning in the corridor.

The man sat slumped on a low wooden bench bolted straight into the damp stone floor. His dirty leather hood had been stripped away, revealing an entirely unremarkable face, pale, sweat-streaked skin, a sharp chin, and matted brown hair clinging to his forehead. Fresh linen bandages covered both thighs, though blood had already begun soaking through the white cloth. His hands were wrapped in thick canvas to keep his injured palms from moving.

He didn’t look up when the door opened. He just kept his eyes fixed on the stone floor between his boots, his jaw clenched so tightly that his cheek muscles twitched.

Caldrin dragged a heavy, high-backed wooden chair from the corner of the corridor and set it down squarely in front of the prisoner.

"Thank you, Caldrin," Lioren murmured, giving him an approving nod. "See? This is why I keep you around. Always sensible, always reliable. Almost makes up for your dreadful sense of humor."

Lioren turned the chair around, straddled it, and draped his arms over the carved backrest. With his chin resting on his wrists, he looked the prisoner over, wearing the curious expression of someone who’d found a strange insect and couldn’t decide whether to poke it with a stick.

"It’s rather dark in here, isn’t it?" Lioren remarked after a few seconds of silence, tilting his head. "I mean, I know it’s a prison, but really, Caldrin, we aren’t savages. Surely the house budget can afford a single candle for our guest?"

The guard near the door immediately stepped forward, holding out a thick candle set into a small brass holder. He lit the wick using the corridor torch, handing it to Lioren with a quiet bow.

"Thank you, Alton," Lioren murmured pleasantly.

He took the brass holder and turned it between his fingers. The little flame danced in the darkness, sending shadows skittering across the cold stone walls. Its light caught the captive’s pale, sweat-covered face, while Lioren watched the white candle slowly soften and melt, forming a clear pool around the wick.

Lioren lifted the candle a little higher, angling it toward the captive’s face. He tilted it to one side, then the other, before lowering it to inspect the rest of the man.

"Well, there we go. Now I can actually see you." He moved the candle down the man’s chest, then back up again, giving him a thorough once-over. "And, wow. You’re really not in good shape, are you?"

He shifted the candle to the left, illuminating one side of the captive, then to the right to examine the other. His expression grew almost sympathetic as he took in the bloodstained bandages around the man’s thighs and the thick wrappings around his hands.

"Look at you. Both legs injured, both hands injured, and that face..." Lioren brought the candle closer, peering at him with curiosity. "Never mind."

He paused.

"So," Lioren began. "You’ve had about three hours down here in the quiet. My men patched you up enough to keep you from losing any limbs, I assume, and you’ve had plenty of time to reflect on your life choices."

The prisoner didn’t budge. He kept his head down, breathing in short, raspy bursts through his nose. His jaw was clenched so tightly that Lioren half expected him to crack a tooth trying to maintain his impressive act of being a terrifying, uncooperative spy.

Lioren let out a long sigh and shook his head, wearing the sort of disappointment usually reserved for children who’d been taught their multiplication tables a dozen times and still insisted that three times four was seventeen.

"Still nothing? Really?" Lioren murmured. "Come on, friend, you’re making this whole evening such a bother. I could be upstairs enjoying my bed right now, while you’re stuck here with two mangled hands and legs that are going to hurt like hell once the willow tea stops working. Neither of us is having a particularly good time, are we?"

Without the slightest shift in his posture, without a single flicker of anger or warning in his bright blue eyes, Lioren tilted the brass holder four inches to the left.

DRIP

A single, thick drop of boiling tallow fell straight onto the raw, exposed skin of the man’s right thigh, landing just an inch above his blood-soaked bandage.

"AGH!"

The prisoner jerked violently, a sharp, strangled cry tearing from his throat as his spine went stiff as a board. His boots scraped frantically against the stone flags, his bound, bandaged hands twitching helplessly against his lap as the hot wax scalded his flesh.

"Oh, does that hurt?" Lioren asked, peering at him with the sort of concern one might show a child who’d scraped his knee. "I suppose I’ll find out soon enough whether your hands are as sensitive as your thighs."

Lioren didn’t so much as blink. He didn’t pull the candle away or even twitch his hand. He just held the brass dish where it was, the yellow flame lighting up his face. He looked perfectly calm, perfectly pleasant, and about as welcoming as a northern noble could be. Really, he was being a wonderful host. The prisoner was simply failing to appreciate it.

He tilted his head slightly, his eyes locking onto the man’s terrified, sweat-drenched face.

"So," Lioren asked gently. "Ready to talk?"