The Warlord nodded toward the Inquisitor, who removed a sharp knife from the table. He stepped before the monk and, with a sudden cut, sliced open his shoulder. Dominic did not move, not even an involuntary twitch, in reaction. Using pincers, the Inquisitor took a hot coal and applied it to the cut. Again the monk did not react.
The Inquisitor put away his pincers and said, “It is useless, master. His mind is blocked away. We’ve had this problem with priests before.”
Pug’s brow furrowed. While not free of politics, the temples tended to be circumspect in their relationships with the High Council. If the Warlord had been interrogating priests, that indicated movement on the part of the temples toward those allied against the War Party. From Hochopepa’s ignorance of this fact, it also meant the Warlord was moving covertly and had stolen the march on his opposition. As much as anything, this told Pug that the Empire was in serious straits, even now poised on the brink of civil war. The assault upon those who stood with the Emperor would come soon.
“This one’s no priest,” said Ergoran, coming up to Meecham. He looked up at the tall franklin. “He’s a simple slave, so he should prove more manageable.” Meecham spit full in the magician’s face. Ergoran, used to the unhesitating fear and respect due a Great One, was as stunned as if he had been clubbed. He staggered back, wiping spittle from his face. Enraged, he said coldly, “You’ve earned a slow, lingering death, slave.”
Meecham smiled, for the first time Pug could remember, a broad grin, almost leering. His face was rendered impossibly demonic by the scar on his cheek. “It was worth it, you genderless mule.”
In his anger, Meecham had spoken in the King’s Tongue, but the tone of the insult was not lost on the magician. He reached over, pulled the sharp blade from the Inquisitor’s table, and slashed a long furrow on Meecham’s chest. The franklin stiffened, his face draining of color as the wound began to bleed. Ergoran stood before him in triumph. Then the Midkemian spit again.
The Inquisitor turned to the Warlord. “Master, the Great One is interfering with delicate work.”
The magician stepped back, letting the knife drop. He again wiped the spittle from his face as he returned to the Warlord’s side. With hatred in his voice, he said, “Don’t be too hasty in speaking what you know, Milamber. I wish this carrion a long session.”
Pug struggled to battle the magic neutralizing properties of the bracelets upon his wrists, but to no avail. The Inquisitor began to work upon Meecham, but the stoic franklin refused to cry out. For half an hour the Inquisitor practiced his bloody trade, until at last Meecham sounded a strangled groan and passed into semi-consciousness. The Warlord said, “Why have you returned, Milamber?”
Pug, feeling Meecham’s pain as if it were his own, said, “I’ve told you the truth.” He looked at Ergoran. “You know it’s the truth.” He knew his plea fell on deaf ears, for the enraged magician wished Meecham to suffer for spite, not caring that Pug had told all.
The Warlord indicated to the Inquisitor that he was to begin upon Pug. The red-hooded man tore Pug’s robes open. The pot of caustic was opened and a small daub was applied to Pug’s chest. Years of hard work as a slave in the swamp had left Pug a lean, muscled man, and his body tensed as the pain began. At first daub there had been no sensation, then an instant later pain seared his flesh as the chemicals in the paste reacted. Pug could almost hear the skin blister. The Warlord’s voice cut through the pain. “Why have you returned? Whom have you contacted?”