David Weber - Hell Hath No Fury

"Would the Voice care to identify himself now?" the Intelligence officer inquired, pressing the muzzle of the captured weapon against the prisoner's temple and cocking it.

Still no one spoke, and Neshok shrugged.

"Suit yourself," he said softly, and squeezed the trigger.

It was the first time he'd actually used a "revolver" for its designed function. The recoil was as unpleasant as ever, but he'd allowed for that. What he hadn't quite allowed for was the way the prisoner's head splashed as the heavy bullet blew it apart. Blood and bits of tissue erupted across Neshok, but he managed not to flinch as the corpse flipped backwards and thudded to the ground.

The other Sharonians stared at him. Clearly, they hadn't believe he'd actually shoot one of them in cold blood.

Well, he thought, at least we've established now that I will. That's worthwhile in its own right.

"Would the Voice care to reconsider his position?" he asked, watching Porath choose yet another prisoner, once more at random.

The second Sharonian stumbled forward, his face white and strained. He tried to dig his heels in, but without the use of his hands, resistance was ultimately futile. Porath dragged him over to stand where the first prisoner had died, and Neshok pressed the muzzle against his head, in turn.

"Wait!" a Sharonian voice called.

Neshok turned his head, quirking one eyebrow, and gazed interrogatively at the speaker. The Sharonian looked to be a bit older than most of the prisoners, and he wore only a sleeveless undershirt of some sort above the waist, which meant he wasn't displaying any rank insignia. But there was something about his eyes-a hard, challenging something, like the eyes of that wiry little senior-armsman back at Fort Shaylar.

"I'm the Voice," the Sharonian said.

"Are you?" Neshok considered the other man for a moment, then shrugged and beckoned the one Porath had chosen back in among the others. "Come here."

The man who'd identified himself walked across to face Neshok.

"So, you're the Voice?"

"Yes," the Sharonian said, but Neshok shook his head and held up his personal crystal. A bright red light strobed down inside it, and the Intelligence officer sighed.

"I'm afraid you're not," he said. "This is a truth spell. And according to it, you've just lied to me."

"I don't care what your rock says," the prisoner replied. "You wanted the Voice. You've got me."

"Yes, I have, but you're not a Voice. And I've decided I don't like people who lie to me."

The second shot was just as noisy as the first one, and the second Sharonian fell diagonally across the body of the first.

"We can keep this up as long as you like," Neshok told the remaining prisoners, and nodded to Porath again.

"That won't be necessary," another Sharonian said. His face was hard with hatred, and he stepped forward on his own. "I'm the Voice."

Neshok looked at him for a moment, then glanced down at his PC again. This time, the crystal showed no flashing red, and he nodded slightly.

"And would you happen to be the only Voice?" he asked calmly, still watching the crystal.

"As far as I know, I'm the only one still alive, at any rate," the Voice said harshly, and once again the crystal remained clear.

"And who would this fellow have been?" Neshok said, nodding his head at the second dead man.

"Company-Captain chan Robarik," the Voice grated, and Neshok just managed not to curse. Just his luck. They'd actually managed to take the fort's commanding officer alive, only to have him get himself killed out of sheer stupidity.

"It's too bad you didn't step forward soon enough to keep him alive," he told the Voice.

"No Sharonian made you pull that trigger," the Voice said.

"You may have a point," Neshok conceded, then cocked his head. "Tell me, is it true that no Voice can communicate with another one through a portal?"

"Of course it is," the Sharonian replied.

"So you all keep telling me, and I suppose I have to believe you," Neshok said, glancing back down at his PC once more. "Still, it's probably best not to take any chances, don't you think?"

The Voice only glared at him, and Neshok shrugged. Then he raised the revolver again.

"Now," he told the other prisoners a moment later, his own voice sounding strangely far away and tinny through the ringing in his ears, "I trust the rest of you will see the wisdom of answering my questions promptly and thoroughly. If you don't-" he looked down at the three bodies sprawled grotesquely across the ground "-I'm afraid I'm going to have to reload, aren't I?"

The parade, Kinlafia decided, was going to be just as incredibly gaudy as the Emperor had promised.

And my own modest appearance definitely contributes to the overall gaudiness.

He looked down at the sleeve of his coat and grimaced. The skintight trousers-only the tailors and the incredibly polite (if not over impressed) valet had told him they were properly called "pantaloons"-

looked (and felt) as if they'd been sprayed on. He could see why that style had gone out of fashion so many centuries ago; what he couldn't see was what lunacy had ever brought it back into fashion. At least the rigorous lifestyle of a Portal Authority Voice assigned to survey duty had kept him reasonably fit … unlike some of the courtiers and politicians, who looked remarkably like sausages stuffed into tootight skins.

The boots weren't too bad, although he'd had no time to break them in properly and the gilded tassels with the diamond sets were a bit much. Then there was the single, elaborately engraved silver spur mounted on his right heel. And the full-sleeved silk shirt with enough ruffles and lace to have made him look like an irritated pigeon if not for the coat's confinement. Ah, yes, the coat. The thing had to weigh at least thirty pounds, and at least half that poundage was consumed by the layer upon layer of scallopcut silk fluttering from his shoulders. Alazon had informed him that they were properly called

"capelets," and he supposed he could understand why they were. Why anyone wanted to waste that much perfectly good-and hideously expensive-fabric on them was something else, however.

And then, as the crowning touch, there was the rapier. The never-to-be-sufficiently-damned rapier. Not only was the accursed thing a good four feet long, but it was also a genuine, tempered steel blade which dragged at his left side like an anchor and waggled around behind him like … like … .

Actually, he couldn't think of a good way to describe it, he decided disgustedly. He didn't know enough cuss words.

One of the things he'd liked best about his survey crew duties was the fact that he'd never had to worry about formal clothing very much out in the wilderness. Sturdy denim trousers, boots, and a serviceable shirt-plus, of course, the pistol belt which was an an essential fashion accessory-pretty much took care of the sartorial problem. Not only that, it kept him from feeling like a circus clown.

Unfortunately, his normal outfits would have been completely unacceptable today. Which, in his considered opinion, said something unhealthy about the mentality of high-fashion designers. But he was trapped on their turf, and his total lack of experience left him with no option but to rely entirely on the judgment of others. It was, he'd discovered, an uncomfortable feeling. Fortunately, he'd had Alazon to look out for him, and he had to admit that the tawny, almost amber-colored silk she'd chosen for his ridiculous coat was just as striking with the black "pantaloons" and gleaming boots as she and the imperial tailors had promised it would be. Now if only he could figure out what to do with the elaborate fall of capelets, the ridiculous rapier, and the ludicrous confection of silk, fur trim, sequins, and feathers which shared some distant ancestor with a Bernithian Highland bonnet.