‘Who did this?’ demanded the Strike Leader.
The man blinked, worked his lips and seemed to emerge from a daze. ‘Water,’ he whispered hoarsely, as if he had been screaming, full-throated, and for a long time. Lujan called a servant to fetch a waterskin, then gently eased the injured man to the ground. Something inside the man seemed to break as he drank. His abused legs quivered in the dust, and suddenly he was fainting. The soldier’s strong hands propped him upright, and the servant splashed water on his wrists and face. Dust and blood rinsed away to reveal more bruises, and a sickening smell of burned flesh.
‘Gods,’ said the soldier. ‘Who did this?’
Ignoring his abused state, the man attempted to rise. ‘Must go,’ he muttered, though it was clear he could not continue.
Lujan ordered two warriors to lift the man up and carry him through the wagons to a fire. Settled on a blanket, and exposed at last to the light, the extent of what he had suffered was revealed. No portion of his body had been spared from torment. The tale was told in ugly lesions, ragged at the edges where caustic solutions had been applied; the hand wrapped in the shirt tatters was a mass of blackened burns and without fingernails; and the skin over sensitive nerve centres was congested and purple with bruising. Whoever had tortured this man had been an artist of pain, for while the man yet survived, several times during the process he must have begged for passage to the halls of Turakamu.
Lujan spoke softly in sympathy. ‘Who are you?’
The man’s eyes struggled to focus, ‘I must warn her,’ he insisted in a voice made feverish by pain.
‘Warn?’ asked Lujan.
‘I must warn my Lady . . .’
Lujan knelt and bent closer to the man, whose voice grew faint. ‘Who is your Lady?’
The man thrashed feebly against the soldier’s grasp, then seemed to weaken. ‘Lady Mara.’
Lujan glanced at the soldiers who stood upon either side. ‘Do you know this man?’ he questioned quickly.
A warrior from the old Acoma garrison indicated he had never seen the wounded man, and he knew every servant by sight.
Lujan motioned the others to stand away and leaned down. Near the man’s ear he whispered, ‘Akasis bloom . . .’
The man struggled upright and fixed a bright, fevered gaze on Lujan’s face. ‘. . . in my lady’s dooryard,’ he muttered back. ‘The sharpest thorns . . .’
Lujan finished,’. . . protect sweet blossoms.’
‘Gods, gods, you’re Acoma,’ said the man in relief. For an instant it looked as if he might shame himself, and cry.
Lujan rested his knuckles on his knees. His eyes never strayed from the tortured man’s face as he called for the healer to dress and bind the wounds. ‘You are one of my Lady’s agents,’ he concluded softly.
The man managed a nearly imperceptible nod. ‘Until a few days ago. I . . .’ He paused, winced, and seemed to maintain lucidity with an effort, ‘I am Kanil. I served in the Minwanabi household. I carried food to Desio’s table and stood by to meet his demands. Much of . . .’ His voice faded.
Gently as possible Lujan said, ‘Slowly. Tell us slowly. We have all night to listen.’
The injured servant jerked his chin violently in the negative, then sank back into a faint.
‘Give him air, and tell the healer to bring a restorative to rouse him,’ Lujan snapped. A warrior hurried off to comply, while the men who had been steadying the man gently eased a blanket under his head. Moments later the healer arrived, unlimbering his bundled box of medicines and bandages. He quickly prepared and pressed a strong-smelling medicine to the unconscious man’s nose. He roused with a groan and thrashed his arms.
Lujan caught his tortured gaze. ‘Tell me. You were discovered.’
‘Somehow.’ The man blinked, as if trapped by unpleasant memories. ‘The First Adviser, Incomo, found out I was an Acoma agent.’
Lujan said nothing. Besides the Spy Master, only four people in the Acoma household, Mara, Nacoya, Keyoke, and himself, knew the passwords, changed at irregular intervals, that would identify an Acoma agent. The possibility could not be dismissed that this man might be a Minwanabi impostor. Only Arakasi would know for certain. If torture could force the password from the real agent, any number of enemy warriors might agree to this abuse to ruin the Acoma.