neither answered, he stepped forward and gripped the man by the chin, squeezing hard as he forced him to look up. “I asked, are you Kormanley?”
The man’s jaw clenched in defiance, his eyes hardening.
Moving faster than Allan thought possible, Hagger released his chin, grabbed the man’s nose with one hand, the back of his head with the other, and ground the broken cartilage between his fingers.
The man screamed, the sound trapped in the low room, grating against Allan’s skin and making his shoulders hunch. The woman shrieked and tried to intervene, but Hagger backhanded her, the other two Dogs grabbing her and pulling her away. Allan focused on the table as the torture continued, Hagger releasing the man and repeating his question.
The papers were covered with notes and sketches of maps from different locations around the city, mostly parks and larger intersections, a few of the ley stations where people could catch barges to different parts of the city. One map appeared to be of the ley routes, starting at the central area of Grass—at least those that were visible above ground. Allan knew that the Wielders kept the true ley lines—those underground—secret. He pushed the maps aside, looking for a list of names, for something that would identify the Kormanley priests, but there was nothing that obvious among the papers.
Disgusted but not surprised—the Kormanley were adept at keeping their members secret—he spread the maps out again, rearranging them into a rough pattern of the inner city’s districts, then bent over them, squinting at the scrawled notes. Most were senseless, a sequence of numbers or letters that didn’t form words. Like a code.
Allan shook his head and stood back, his gaze falling on the waterskins.
Except they weren’t waterskins. Not really.
Behind, the woman screamed, the sound degenerating into a whimper, and Allan turned to see Hagger thrust her away in disdain, a knife held in one hand. Her face was lined with bloody, yet shallow, cuts, and streaked with tears. The man lay on the floor, facedown, moaning.
“They’re Kormanley,” Allan said.
Hagger spun on him, hand clenched on his knife, a snarl twisting his mouth. Allan had seen him like this before—enraged, on the verge of a full-out brawl—usually when the interrogations of the Kormanley they did find didn’t go as planned.
Like this one.
“How do you know?” Hagger snapped.
Allan picked up one of the skins. “Remember the sowing? The Kormanley who immolated himself? He was wearing one of these.”
Hagger broke away from the two prisoners and approached the table.
Allan opened the one he held and sniffed the contents, grimacing, then held it up for Hagger. “Lamp oil. These were strapped to that man’s chest. He split them open with a knife, then set himself on fire.”
Hagger took a whiff of the skin. “Sick bastards,” he muttered, then glared at the two captives. One of the other Dogs had pulled the man back into a kneeling position. Both of them were wobbling in place, the woman’s head downcast, the man’s face set with rage.
“They’re just like all the others,” Allan said. “They aren’t going to tell us anything.”
Hagger stiffened, then jammed his knife back into its sheath and motioned toward the other Dogs. “Take them back to the Amber Tower. Take everything in here. The captain will want to see it.”
The Dogs dragged the two Kormanley outside, then began tearing the place apart. Allan scooped up the papers, folded them, and tucked them into a pocket.
Hagger gave him a funny look. “Something important in there?”
“I don’t know, but there’s something bothering me about it.”
“Just make certain it gets to the captain.”
Allan nodded, back straightening at the undercurrent of suspicion and threat in Hagger’s tone. He reminded himself that he hadn’t been part of the Dogs for long, even if he had caught the attention of the Baron.
Hagger watched the Dogs
The man’s jaw clenched in defiance, his eyes hardening.
Moving faster than Allan thought possible, Hagger released his chin, grabbed the man’s nose with one hand, the back of his head with the other, and ground the broken cartilage between his fingers.
The man screamed, the sound trapped in the low room, grating against Allan’s skin and making his shoulders hunch. The woman shrieked and tried to intervene, but Hagger backhanded her, the other two Dogs grabbing her and pulling her away. Allan focused on the table as the torture continued, Hagger releasing the man and repeating his question.
The papers were covered with notes and sketches of maps from different locations around the city, mostly parks and larger intersections, a few of the ley stations where people could catch barges to different parts of the city. One map appeared to be of the ley routes, starting at the central area of Grass—at least those that were visible above ground. Allan knew that the Wielders kept the true ley lines—those underground—secret. He pushed the maps aside, looking for a list of names, for something that would identify the Kormanley priests, but there was nothing that obvious among the papers.
Disgusted but not surprised—the Kormanley were adept at keeping their members secret—he spread the maps out again, rearranging them into a rough pattern of the inner city’s districts, then bent over them, squinting at the scrawled notes. Most were senseless, a sequence of numbers or letters that didn’t form words. Like a code.
Allan shook his head and stood back, his gaze falling on the waterskins.
Except they weren’t waterskins. Not really.
Behind, the woman screamed, the sound degenerating into a whimper, and Allan turned to see Hagger thrust her away in disdain, a knife held in one hand. Her face was lined with bloody, yet shallow, cuts, and streaked with tears. The man lay on the floor, facedown, moaning.
“They’re Kormanley,” Allan said.
Hagger spun on him, hand clenched on his knife, a snarl twisting his mouth. Allan had seen him like this before—enraged, on the verge of a full-out brawl—usually when the interrogations of the Kormanley they did find didn’t go as planned.
Like this one.
“How do you know?” Hagger snapped.
Allan picked up one of the skins. “Remember the sowing? The Kormanley who immolated himself? He was wearing one of these.”
Hagger broke away from the two prisoners and approached the table.
Allan opened the one he held and sniffed the contents, grimacing, then held it up for Hagger. “Lamp oil. These were strapped to that man’s chest. He split them open with a knife, then set himself on fire.”
Hagger took a whiff of the skin. “Sick bastards,” he muttered, then glared at the two captives. One of the other Dogs had pulled the man back into a kneeling position. Both of them were wobbling in place, the woman’s head downcast, the man’s face set with rage.
“They’re just like all the others,” Allan said. “They aren’t going to tell us anything.”
Hagger stiffened, then jammed his knife back into its sheath and motioned toward the other Dogs. “Take them back to the Amber Tower. Take everything in here. The captain will want to see it.”
The Dogs dragged the two Kormanley outside, then began tearing the place apart. Allan scooped up the papers, folded them, and tucked them into a pocket.
Hagger gave him a funny look. “Something important in there?”
“I don’t know, but there’s something bothering me about it.”
“Just make certain it gets to the captain.”
Allan nodded, back straightening at the undercurrent of suspicion and threat in Hagger’s tone. He reminded himself that he hadn’t been part of the Dogs for long, even if he had caught the attention of the Baron.
Hagger watched the Dogs
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