The Interrogator
“Y ou can’t do this,” Lucas Croft protested. “It’s not lawful.” When he tried to stand, his captors shoved him back into his chair.
They’d grabbed him out of the Golden Rudder in Rivertown and kept him blindfolded for the whole long journey by carriage and sleigh to.
..wherever. Though he had been unable to keep track of the days and had no sense of direction, the sounds of crowds and traffic he’d begun to hear indicated a big town, maybe even Sacor City.
At no point along the way had his captors told him where they were going or what they wanted.
He assumed, that at long last, his crimes had finally caught up with him, that he’d crossed the wrong person, someone powerful enough to hire these two to retrieve him.
They unbound his wrists and removed his blindfold. He shook his hands out and blinked rapidly in relief.
“You will sit nice and quiet,” one of the men said, “or we’ll truss ya up again.”
They had brought him into a building that was freezing cold and smelled of old blood and offal.
Their voices and movements rang out into an empty expanse that was difficult to see with two half-shielded lanterns glaring directly into his eyes.
If he squinted, he could make out certain details nearby, and they were dismaying.
Large hooks hung from chains overhead and the floor beneath his feet was deeply stained by what could only be the residue of the butchering trade.
They had brought him to a slaughterhouse.
“Wh—why are we here?” he asked.
“Someone wants to talk to you.”
“Just talk?”
Neither of his captors replied.
He did not know how long he’d been waiting for this “someone” to come talk to him, but his bladder was full for his captors had allowed him to drink as much ale as he wished with his meager supper of bread and cheese before they dragged him to this place.
Now they wouldn’t let him take a piss and he fidgeted, hoping that this ordeal was over sooner rather than later so he could. That was if he was still alive . . .
He glanced up at the big hook that hung over his head, wondering what they had in store for him.
As much as he had wheedled and cajoled his captors, they had told him only that he was a thief.
He had stolen some money, true, but that was all.
He imagined himself swinging from the hook like a pig at slaughter.
He licked his lips and tasted the salt of sweat.
The longer he sat, the more his mind wandered, worrying about who the person was that had him brought here and what they intended. Had those old G’ladheon crones sent these men after him?
“I need to piss,” he told his captors again.
No answer.
He bounced his knee both at the urgency of his need to go and the building anxiety over his ultimate fate.
Now his mind didn’t just wander; it raced as he imagined his corpse tossed into a ditch, how they’d do the deed.
Would they kill him fast, or slowly torture him, or maybe beat him beyond recognition? Leave him in a snowbank to bleed out?
Tip-tap, tip-tap
The new sound approached from somewhere behind him.
Tip-tap, tip-tap
It was accompanied by slow, soft footsteps. Someone circled round him beyond the light of the lanterns. His heart hammered in his chest.
The tapping ceased in front of him. He squinted and made out the silhouette of a figure, but little more.
He could no longer contain himself. “Who are you? What do you want from me?”
“Yer not the one asking questions,” one of his captors warned. “Keep yer mouth shut until you are addressed.”
“I demand answers.” Lucas started to rise from his chair but he was forced back down.
“You want we should gag you?” the captor asked.
Lucas shut his mouth.
Tip-tap, tip-tap
The mystery person moved behind him again. He guessed the tapping sound was a cane or some sort of walking stick. The tapping paused directly behind him. When he tried to look, one of the men gripped the crown of his head and made sure he stared straight ahead.
“Master Croft,” came a soft voice by his left ear. His hair stood on end. Then he relaxed recognizing a woman’s voice. Women were soft. This one wouldn’t do anything—
“Master Croft,” she said again directly into his ear. “I have been waiting for you.”
Tip-tap, tip-tap
She did not stop until she stood in front of him. “I have been looking forward to meeting with you for some time. It seems you stole a great deal of money when you were entrusted as an accountant.”
So, this was indeed a hireling of the G’ladheon sisters. He started bouncing his knee again as his bladder reasserted itself.
“Do you deny this theft?” she asked.
“I don’t have to tell you anything.”
“Your attitude is unfortunate,” she replied. “An admission of guilt would make it so much easier on you.”
“Easier than what?”
“My chair, please, and the table,” she said.
One of the men stepped away and brought back the requested items. She set a heavy object on the table that clattered like a bag of tools.
He perceived her stepping closer, and suddenly the handle of a cane protruded between the lanterns. He jumped and stiffened in anticipation of a blow. Instead, she placed the handle beneath his chin and tilted his face up. He tried to swat it away, but the big man holding him down caught his wrist.
“Now, now, Master Croft,” she said. “I’m just trying to get a look at you. A bit pasty-faced, are you? Spend all your time inside taking care of the books and calculating how much to steal, eh?”
He sputtered. “I’ve been an accountant for twenty years and never—”
“Silence.” Her voice was deadly, and she forced the cane handle harder against his chin, causing him to gasp.
And then just as suddenly, she withdrew it into the dark. To his shame, a trickle of warm urine dampened his trousers.
She lifted one of the lanterns away to her table and adjusted the shield so that it did not glare into his eyes as much, but it revealed little else. She remained concealed in the dark but for a half-moon of her face, her eye covered by a patch. No soft woman was this.
“I hear,” she said, “you spent most of your stolen funds on whores and gambling.”
“I did not! I—” Then he realized he had just confessed to stealing.
“So, you admit to the theft?”
“I admit nothing.”
The chair creaked as she sat. She opened the bag.
It was made of heavy waxed canvass and leather like a workman’s bag.
She removed some metal implements and carefully arranged them on the table.
He could not see what they were though the light glinted dully on them.
She did not speak while she placed the tools exactly the way she wanted them.
Despite the coldness of the place, sweat broke out on his face and beneath his armpits. What did she intend?
She then removed two of the implements. A knife blade flared in the lantern light. Then came the sound of her scraping the blade against a whetting stone. She did not speak for many minutes. More sweat rolled down his face and he thought his bladder might release the remaining urine.
She inspected the knife, holding the cutting edge at eye level. When she was apparently satisfied, she held it in the light. It was a small specifically shaped knife like he had seen menders use.
“I have many tools for many uses,” she said. “They are by and large ordinary. A hammer to pound nails into wood. Others are a little more specialized like a bone saw that menders use to cut off limbs.”
She lifted the bone saw so he could see it in the light. It cast a toothy shadow across the half-moon of her face.
“Why?” he asked, voice quavering. “Why are you showing me these things?” Innately he knew the answer.
She smiled and set the saw aside, positioning it ever so carefully. “It’s appropriate we sit in an old slaughterhouse, is it not?”
More urine ran down his leg and he whimpered. It was what she left unsaid that caused him to tremble.
“Do you know what this tool is?” she asked, showing him the knife once more.
He licked his lips, did not answer.
“No?” she stood and walked around him again this time without the tip-tap of the cane. Her soft footfalls paused behind him.
“Let me go, please,” he said.
Silence.
“Please,” he said. “I didn’t hurt anyone.”
Suddenly she was right there again, whispering into his ear. “Are you so sure?” She pressed the flat of the knife against the pulse in his throat.
He swallowed, felt the pressure of the blade as he did so. “I hurt no one. I—I just...”
“Did you know,” she said in that dead calm voice of hers, “one of the G’ladheon sisters died?
Perhaps she had been sick for a time, but the theft of her family’s savings hurried her to a premature grave.
It was not just her and her sisters who relied on those funds, either, but an entire clan, and an entire network of business contacts.
You see, when you are the head of a clan, your responsibility is to the people you lead and support, as well as those who depend on the clan for services, goods, and opportunities.
Many are displeased with you, Lucas Croft. ”
“I’m real sorry,” he said, “about the sister. Was it Stace?”
The knife pressed harder against his neck, the edge coming into play.
He sobbed. She held the blade there firmly for what felt like an eternity.
He feared swallowing would cause it to slit his artery, which, of course, gave him an uncontrollable urge to swallow even more.
He almost laughed at himself for thinking of her as a soft woman.
She was hard and cruel. She would cut his throat, he knew, without a second thought.
“This tool,” she said, “this very sharp mender’s knife, is commonly used for gelding livestock. Do you understand what I am saying?”
“Yes, yes,” he said, no longer able to control his bladder. The last of his urine soaked his leg.
“You can stop this,” she said, “ if you admit that you stole the G’ladheon clan’s funds. Otherwise, a few more bloodstains on the floor of a slaughterhouse won’t arouse any suspicion.”
Tears gushed down his cheeks. “If I tell you, will you really let me go?”
“An answer,” she said, slowly walking around him again, “or the knife.” She stood before him, halved by bright light and stark shadow. “Provide me with an answer and I will allow you to walk out of here. If not?” The question hung heavy in the air.
To Lucas’ mind, there was no doubt about what he should choose. He licked his lips. “I did it. Yes, I did it. Celesta Suttley put me up to it. Please, will you let me go now? Please!”
She withdrew the knife. “Celesta Suttley put you up to it?”
He sensed her surprise. “Yes. She said I had to do it or she would report all my other, er, activities.”
“You mean, thefts ?”
“Yes, my other thefts.” He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. “She said she would report them to the constabulary.”
“Fekking Suttley sheep balls!” she exclaimed, sounding very different than she had just a moment ago.
She strode to the table and fully unshielded both lanterns. He blinked trying to adjust his eyesight. When his vision cleared, he saw a tired young woman attired in gray and black, slumped in the chair, leaning on her elbow propped on the table.
Other people approached out of the dark, including two constables. He darted his gaze back at her. “You said I could walk away if I admitted what I did.”
“And you will. I didn’t say you’d walk free .”
“Who the hells are you?”
She watched as the constables took his arms and made him stand. He was unsteady on his feet, and his wet trousers clung cold and clammy to his legs.
“You don’t know who I am?” she asked.
“Are you a constable? Some torturer?”
She smiled at the last. “None of those things.” Then her expression turned cold and cruel again. “And you are lucky I am not.”
“Then who? Who are you?”
She leaned forward. “The person who is going to see you off to jail for a very long time.”
“I’ll find out,” he said, anger taking over his fear. “I’ll find out and then you’ll be sorry.”
His words did not affect her. In fact, she yawned. She yawned! As the constables bundled him off, he felt her cold, hard gaze following him all the way out of the slaughterhouse.