Jim Butcher - Cursors's Fury

Giraldi limped up to them and grunted. “Now you be careful, sir. I don’t want to be the only centurion in the Legions to get two of his commanders cut down.”

Bernard traded grips with him. “Keep an eye on ‘Sana. When she wakes up, tell her…” He shook his head. “Doesn’t matter. She knows better than I what I’d say.”

“Course,” Giraldi agreed. Then he caught Amara in a rough hug, hard enough to make her ribs creak. “And you. Don’t let him distract you none.”

Amara hugged back, and said, “Thank you.”

The old centurion nodded, saluted them, fist to heart, and limped from the garden.

“Very well, my lady,” Bernard murmured. “Where do we begin?”

Amara frowned, and narrowed her eyes. “With someone who has seen Kalarus’s operation from the inside, and who might know his plans.” She turned to Bernard and said, “We’re going to the dungeons.”

“You told the assembly that all of Kalarus’s assassins had died rather than be captured,” Lady Aquitaine murmured as they descended the last steps to the cells beneath Lord Cereus’s citadel.

“Yes,” Amara said. “I did. But this one we took alive. It is she who attempted to take the life of Steadholder Isana.”

“She?” Lady Aquitaine asked, her tone interested. “The others were all men.”

“Yes,” Amara replied. “She was one of Kalarus’s bloodcrows. It is possible that she might know something of his plans. She was high in his councils.”

“And therefore loyal to him,” Lady Aquitaine mused. “Or at least very much under his control. Do you actually believe she will divulge such information to you?”

“She will,” Amara said. “One way or another.”

She could feel the pressure of Lady Aquitaine’s gaze on the back of her head. “I see,” the High Lady murmured. “This shall be interesting.”

Amara put a hand on Bernard’s shoulder to signal him, and stopped on the cold stone stairway before her. She turned to face Lady Aquitaine. “Your Grace, I ask you to remember that you are here to assist me,” she said quietly. “I will do the talking.”

The High Lady narrowed her eyes, for a moment. Then she nodded, and Amara resumed her pace.

The “dungeon” of the citadel of Ceres was seldom in use. In fact, it appeared that the chilly place was primarily used for storing foodstuffs. Several crates of cabbages, apples, and tubers had been stacked neatly in the hall outside the only closed and guarded doorway. A legionare wearing a tunic in the brown and grey of the House of Cereus stood outside the door, a naked sword in his hand. “Halt, sir,” he said, as Bernard entered the hall. “This area is off-limits.”

Amara slipped around Bernard. “Legionare Karus, isn’t it?” she asked.

The man came to attention and saluted. “Countess Amara? His Grace said you’re to have access to the prisoner.”

Amara gestured at Bernard and Lady Aquitaine. “They’re with me.”

“Yes, Your Excellency.” The guard withdrew to the door, drawing the key from his belt. He hesitated for a moment. “Countess. I don’t know who that woman is. But… she’s hurt pretty bad. She needs a healer.”

“I’ll take care of that,” Amara told him. “Has she tried to speak to you?”

“No, ma’am.”

“Good. Leave the keys. I want you to take station at the bottom of the stairs. We’re not to be disturbed for any but Lord Cereus or Gaius Sextus himself.”

The legionare blinked, then saluted. “Yes, ma’am.” He took up his shield by its carrying strap and marched to the bottom of the stairs.

Amara turned the key smoothly in the well-kept lock, and opened the door. It swung on soundless hinges, and Amara frowned.

“Problem?” Bernard whispered.

“I suppose I expected it to clank. And squeak.”

“First dungeon?”

“Except for where they locked me up with you.”

Bernard’s mouth quirked into a small smile, and he pushed the door the rest of the way open and entered the room first. He stopped there for a moment, and Amara saw him stiffen and heard him draw in a sharp breath. He stood stock-still for a moment, until Amara touched his back, and Bernard moved aside.

Rook had not been treated kindly.

Amara stood beside her husband for a moment. The bloodcrow had been chained to the ceiling, the cuffs cutting into her wrists, held so that her feet barely touched the floor. Her broken leg was wholly unable to support her weight. A six-inch-wide circle grooved into the floor had been filled with oil, and dozens of floating wicks surrounded the prisoner with fire, preventing the use of any water furies-which she obviously possessed, if able to change her appearance to double for the student murdered several years before. Her tenuous connection with the earth, as well as a lack of proper leverage, would make the use of earth furies a useless gesture. No living or once-living plants adorned the room, ruling out much use of woodcrafting, and the close quarters would make the use of any firecrafting essentially suicidal. Metalcrafting might be able to weaken the cuffs, but it was something that would take a great deal of time and effort, and Rook would have neither. This deep beneath the surface, wind furies would be of very limited use-a fact not lost on Amara, who never felt comfortable when Cirrus was not readily available.

That left only simple ingenuity as a possible threat to her captors-and no one who had worked long in Kalarus’s service would be in short supply. Or at least, would not be under normal circumstances. Rook hung limply in the chains, her good leg trembling in a kind of constant state of collapse, barely able to keep enough weight off her suspended shoulders to keep them from being dislocated. Another day or so and it would happen in any case. Her head hung down, hair fallen around her face. Her breathing came in short, harsh jerks, edged with sounds of basic pain and fear, and what little of her voice Amara heard was dry, ragged.

The woman was no threat to anyone. She was doomed, and she knew it. Part of Amara cried out at the woman’s plight, but she pushed compassion from her thoughts. Rook was a murderer and worse. A bloody-handed traitor to the Realm.

All the same. Looking at the woman made Amara feel sick.

Amara stepped over the ring of floating candles, walked over to stand before her and said, “Rook. Look at me.”

Rook’s head twitched. Amara caught the dull shine of the low candlelight on one of the woman’s eyes.

“I don’t want to make this more unpleasant than it has to be,” Amara said in a quiet tone. “I want information. Give it to me, and I’ll have your leg seen to. Supply you a cot.”

Rook stared and said nothing.

“It won’t change what will happen. But there’s no reason you have to be uncomfortable until your trial. No reason you should die in fever and agony while you wait.”

The captive woman shuddered. Her voice came out in a rasp. “Kill me. Or get out.”

Amara folded her arms. “Several thousand legionares are already dead thanks to your master. Thousands more will die in the coming battles. Women, children, the elderly and infirm will also suffer and die. In wars, they always do.”

Rook said nothing.

“You attempted to murder Isana of Calderon. A woman whose personal courage, kindness, and integrity I have seen demonstrated more than once. A woman I count my friend. Count Calderon here is her brother. And, of course, I believe you are acquainted with her nephew. With what they have all given in service to the Realm.”

Rook breathed in short, strangled rasps, but did not speak.

“You face death for what you have done,” Amara said. “I have never been one to believe in spirits bound to earth for their crimes in life. Neither would I wish to have such deeds as yours on my conscience.”