She didn’t answer. He was wrong. She wouldn’t break anytime soon. A pity.
“It takes approximately five minutes to choke an adult to death,” Spider told her. “That’s why people in my profession prefer to break the target’s neck. We’re frequently short on time. It took my people thirty seconds to remove the collar. At no point were you in danger of suffocating. But in a way you did succeed. You see, now I’m short on time. I can no longer gently choke you and wait for you to comply. I have to break you now.”
No reaction. As if she were a mannequin.
He leaned to her. “For Gods’ sake, Genevieve, this is your last chance. The war between Adrianglia and Louisiana is inevitable. It will be fought in my lifetime, if not in yours. The diary holds the key to winning it. Thousands of lives will be spared on both sides, if this war is resolved quickly in a decisive show of force. That’s why that translation is vital to me. I will have it.”
She spat at him. He leaned just enough to avoid it and shook his head. “I need an answer. Will you translate the diary? Think before you answer, because you will sign your death warrant with the wrong word. Think of your husband. Your daughters.”
Her cracked lips moved. “Go to hell.”
Spider sighed. Why did people insist on frustrating him?
“John?”
The door opened and John stepped into the cell. Tall, gaunt, and stooped, his clothes perpetually rumpled, the man had a wary manner about him, resembling a neurotic buzzard. Spider had worked with several mages skilled in human alteration, and John was neither the most difficult nor the easiest to work with. He was, however, the best at what he did.
John dipped his head. “Yes, my lord?”
“We’ll have to fuse her.”
Shock slapped Genevieve’s face. “You’re a monster!”
Spider gripped her neck, swiping her off the floor, to bring her to his own eye level. “The world is full of monsters. I chose to become one, so the rest of my country-men can sleep peacefully in their beds, knowing that their families are shielded by the likes of me. You’ve tied my hands, Madame. Take responsibility for your decisions.”
He dropped her.
“Go ahead and fuse me,” she hissed. “I will kill the lot of you. You will get nothing. My family will bury you in the swamp without that diary.”
Tiresome. Spider glanced at John. “How much time?”
John surveyed the woman on the floor. “She’s nearing fifty. Ideally a month, but I can do it in two weeks.”
“Make it ten days.”
“She won’t be stable.”
Spider looked at John for a long moment to make sure he had the man’s attention. “She is my key, John. If you break her, I will be quite put out.”
The alteration specialist swallowed.
Spider paused before the door. “Tell me when she is in the first stage. Her daughter left the family compound and traveled to the Broken. I want to know why.”
AHEAD a bright green spot of fresh vegetation marked the mouth of Sandal Creek. Cerise turned the boat, steering it into the weeds. The bow mashed the green reeds. She laid into the pole, putting all of her weight into it. The boat tore through the green and landed in clear water.
A narrow channel stretched before them, flanked by purple willows. Tiny magenta and blue leaves littered the calm water.
Lord Bill’s eyebrows crept together, but if he had questions, he kept them to himself.
“That river back there gets a bit senile in another half a mile,” she told him. “It forgets that it’s flowing through the swamp and gets a good current going. Instead of paddling against the current, we’re skipping the whole mess and saving ourselves a couple of hours. We should be back to the main river in about seven miles.”
She tossed the pole at him. He snapped it out of the air. Good reflexes.
“Your turn. Don’t use your arms, let your weight do the work. I’ll see about lunch.”
Lord Bill stood up, keeping his balance like he was born on water, and stabbed the pole into the water. The boat predictably slid from under him. It took him a couple of tries but he hit his stride.
Cerise sat down, dug in her bag, and pulled out a short fishing pole and the bait box she’d liberated from Vern’s boat. She hooked a fat white grub and let the line fall into water.
“NOTHING yet?” William glanced at Cerise.
The hobo girl shook her head. The fishing line trailed forgotten behind the boat. She sat alert, her gaze scanning the banks, her body calm but ready. Like a veteran soldier expecting an attack.
“Something’s wrong,” she murmured. “The stream should be teeming with fish. It’s too well blocked for sharks and too small for ervaurgs.”
“Or you might suck at fishing.” He surveyed the swamp. Torn clouds dappled the sky. The willows lined the shore, like slender women washing their locks in the water. No small noises, except for the distant shrieks of some insane bird.
William inhaled deeply. No odd scents, beyond the usual smorgasbord of algae, fish, and vegetation. And Cerise. She was right. It was too quiet.
The hobo queen rolled into a crouch and reached into her jacket. Here comes the blade. He’d been waiting for her to pull it out again. A foot long, narrow, single-edged, simple hilt. In good shape. She wasn’t homeless—the sword gave her away before the teeth did—but the way she held it struck him as odd. Her grip was loose. Almost delicate, with the hilt caught in her long slender fingers. Clutching your weapon made you clumsy, but a firm grip was best. If you held you sword like it was a painting brush, sooner or later someone would knock it out of your hand.
Ahead an old willow leaned over the bank, its long branches cascading down to the river. A dark shadow shifted in the water under the willow leaves.
“Don’t move,” Cerise whispered.
He froze, pole in his hand. The boat glided slowly, using up the last of its speed.
Ripples pulsed under the willow, wrinkled the river, and vanished.